He’s been part of Search and Rescue for years. I’ve seen him carry grown men out of mudslides, crawl through collapsed roofs, and dive into dark waters when the gear gave out. Nothing ever rattled him—not the chaos, not the danger. But when he sent me a photo from his satellite phone, I could tell something was different this time.

The message was simple: “We pulled the baby from Building 6.” His words carried relief, maybe even hope. But I froze. I knew that building. It had once been a bakery, later converted into small office rentals. No tenants had used it in months. There should’ve been no reason for anyone, let alone a baby, to be inside.

What unsettled me more was the fact that the building’s main entrance had been sealed. Reinforced, padlocked, undisturbed. If the team got inside, it hadn’t been through that front door. So how did a perfectly swaddled infant end up alone in a locked, abandoned building? I enlarged the photo, searching for any clues that might explain the impossible.

Then I saw the blanket. It was fleece, patterned with stars and clouds. Not just familiar—it was unmistakable. Our aunt had sewn that exact blanket by hand six months ago for her daughter’s baby. The baby had been stillborn. That blanket had been placed with him in the casket and buried.

There was no way that same blanket could now be wrapped around a living child. The sight of it sent a cold ache through my chest. Logic fell apart, replaced by something deeper—dread, disbelief.

I didn’t say anything to him yet. But the silence grew heavy. Then the phone rang. It was my cousin. Her voice trembled as she whispered, “That blanket… it was never supposed to come back.”

Something about Building 6 wasn’t right. And neither was the baby.