He has been part of Search & Rescue for years. I’ve watched him carry grown men out of mudslides, crawl into collapsed roofs, and dive into dark water when equipment failed. Nothing ever seemed to shake him. But when he sent me a photo from his satellite phone, I knew something was different.

The message read: “We pulled the baby from Building 6.” His words carried relief, but I froze. I knew that building. It had once been a bakery before becoming a small office rental. There had been no tenants in months, no reason for a baby to be inside.

Even stranger, the main entrance had been sealed. Reinforced, padlocked, untouched. If the team went in, it wasn’t through that door. How, then, did a swaddled infant appear inside? I zoomed in on the photo, searching for details.

The blanket struck me first. Fleece, patterned with stars and clouds. It wasn’t just familiar—it was identical to the one our aunt had sewn by hand six months ago. She had stitched it for her daughter’s son, who was stillborn.

That blanket had been lowered into the ground with the baby. There was no way it should have resurfaced, let alone wrapped around a living child in a sealed building. My stomach tightened as I tried to reason through the impossibility.

I didn’t want to say anything to him. Not yet. But the silence was heavy. I stared at the photo again, the baby’s tiny face peeking out from folds of blue and white fabric that should have been buried.

Then the phone rang. It was my cousin. Her voice trembled as she spoke, carrying the same disbelief I felt.

Something about Building 6 wasn’t what it seemed. And neither was the baby.