He’s been with Search & Rescue for years. I’ve seen him carry men from mudslides, crawl through collapsed roofs, dive into pitch-black water. Nothing ever rattled him.

Until now.

He sent a photo from his satellite phone. The message read: “We pulled the baby from Building 6.” His relief was obvious—but I froze.

That building had been sealed for months. Once a bakery, then an office rental, now abandoned. No tenants. No reason for a baby to be inside.

The main door had been padlocked, untouched. If they entered, it wasn’t through that way. So how was a swaddled infant inside?

I zoomed in. The blanket caught my eye—fleece, stars and clouds. Not just familiar. Identical.

Our aunt made one just like it six months ago. Sewn by hand for a baby who was stillborn. It had been buried with him.

There’s no way it should have resurfaced.

I said nothing. Just stared at the photo—at the living baby wrapped in the fabric meant for the dead.

Then my phone rang.

It was my cousin. Her voice shook.

“I saw the picture,” she whispered. “That’s his blanket.”

Something about Building 6 isn’t right.
And neither is the baby.