It was past midnight when I stepped into my apartment elevator after a 48-hour shift at the firehouse.
I was running on fumes, still smelling faintly of smoke and city dust.
I expected silence.
Instead, I heard a sound that didn’t belong in an empty elevator.
A whimper.
Then a cry—tiny, fragile, and unsure, like the world had startled it awake.
I turned toward the corner.
And saw something that made my brain stall.
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