It was supposed to be just another quiet night.
Rain hammered against the windows while the fireplace crackled warmly, filling the living room with a soft orange glow. I sat in my armchair, letting the warmth melt the tension in my body. Peace. Finally.
Then,Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound cut through the silence like a blade.
"At this hour?" I muttered, already annoyed.
I pushed myself up with a sigh and walked to the door. A quick look through the peephole showed… nothing. No one. Great. Some idiot decided midnight was a perfect time to play pranks.
But when I swung the door open, the last thing I expected was waiting for me on the doorstep.
A baby.Sleeping soundly in a small basket, wrapped in a warm pink blanket. Rainwater dripped from the blanket's edges, but she didn't even stir. A note was clipped to the handle.
I slowly picked up the note.
"To whoever the owner of this house is—Please take care of my baby for me. I am very poor and the father ran away.I want her to have a bright future, something I can't give her.Her name is Emma. Please, take good care of her.I'm sorry.—This baby's mother."
"…What?"
That was all I managed to say. My mind short-circuited. Shock, confusion, disbelief—every emotion slammed into me at once. I stood there frozen for almost a full minute before a crack of thunder jolted me back to reality.
Right. Baby. Outside. Rain. Think later.
I carefully lifted the basket and brought her inside. I placed her near the fireplace—close enough to warm her, not close enough to burn her. Strangely, she still didn't wake up.
Wait.
She's... alive, right?
Panic shot through me.
I leaned over and placed a finger under her tiny nose. Nothing. Or maybe I just couldn't feel anything. Her nose was too small.
Heart pounding, I quickly unwrapped the blanket and pressed my ear to her chest.
There it was, a steady, soft heartbeat.
I exhaled slowly. Relief washed over me like a wave.
She was alive. Just sleeping. Probably a heavy sleeper.
I wrapped her again and stared at her. Peach-soft cheeks. Button nose. Innocent. Peaceful.
Now what the hell was I supposed to do?
I couldn't just… raise her. I didn't have documents. No birth certificate. No details. Just her name.
NRD had to know what to do. Tomorrow. First thing. They'd handle this… right?
…Right?
The night passed in a blur after that. I brought the basket to the couch and sat beside it, unsure if I should leave her alone even for a second. She didn't cry once. Not even a whimper. Just the occasional twitch of her fingers or a tiny sigh escaping her lips. It was unsettling how quiet she was—but oddly comforting, too.
I had never held a baby before. Never changed one. Never fed one. Hell, I could barely keep houseplants alive. But there I was, staring at a tiny human who had been dropped—literally—onto my doorstep by fate or desperation or some cruel combination of both.
I didn't sleep. I watched the fire burn down and listened to the rain fade into a distant drizzle. Sometimes I'd glance at the note again, reading the shaky handwriting over and over, trying to imagine what kind of pain would push a mother to do something like this.
At sunrise, I made formula using a YouTube tutorial with one hand while holding the baby awkwardly with the other. She took the bottle quietly, staring up at me with a seriousness that didn't match her size. Like she was studying me. Judging whether I was good enough.
I wasn't.
But she didn't seem to care.
By the time I drove to the NRD office, exhaustion dragged at my limbs, but something else tugged at my chest. A strange… attachment? Responsibility? Fear?
All of the above.
The office was crowded—parents, couples, civil servants tapping their keyboards like their lives depended on it. I sat in a corner with the basket at my feet. People kept glancing at me, doing double takes. Men didn't usually walk in alone with a newborn in a basket like they'd misplaced the instruction manual.
One old auntie leaned over."First-time father?" she asked, smiling warmly.
"Not exactly," I muttered.
"Ah… accidental father, then."
If only she knew.
Emma cooed softly, drawing the attention of several women in the room who instantly melted. Babies had that power; the nuclear weapon of cuteness. A pair of young nurses rushed over and began playing with her tiny fingers, talking to her like she was royalty. Emma giggled.
Her first real sound since arriving at my doorstep.
And somehow, hearing her giggle made my chest squeeze. Badly.
____________________________________________________________________________
"What did you just say?" I asked, stunned.
The NRD employee blinked at me. "Sir, I said you have to raise this baby yourself. You signed up for the government's 'My Child is Your Child' program. It allows adults to adopt unwanted children with the parents' consent."
My jaw almost unhinged.
"I did not sign up for-"But I stopped.Because deep down, a tiny part of my brain whispered, Did you?My drunk memories were foggy at best and cursed at worst.
She handed me the clipboard. "Your name is right here. Zen Bioheart."
There it was. As clear as the sun outside. My name, neat and bold among dozens of others. Number 42. My stupid drunken self even wrote my address correctly. My phone number. Everything.
I remembered the night too well now—a lonely night, too much alcohol, a stupid ad that I thought was a parody. Something I clicked on because I was bored, miserable, and dumb.
I laughed. A broken, disbelieving laugh. "Of course drunk-me would do this."
"Sir?" the employee asked, slightly alarmed.
"Nothing. Just realizing my biggest enemy is… myself."
She raised an eyebrow but didn't comment.
I asked if I could quit the program, and she turned serious instantly. "No, Sir. Only under extremely specific conditions. And none apply here."
My frustration hit its peak, but then she asked:
"Why are you so afraid to raise her?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried again.No words came out.
She looked down at Emma, quiet, observant Emma who hadn't cried once today and said gently:
"She was entrusted to you. Not by the government. Not by strangers. By her mother. That means something."
Her words hit deeper than I wanted to admit.
I stared at the baby. Her eyes were wide, dark, and curious. Like she saw the world with wonder I had long forgotten. Like she expected something from me; a promise, a place, a chance.
Something inside me softened.And also broke.And rebuilt itself in a different shape.
I wasn't ready to raise a child. Not even close.
But could I abandon her?
Could I hand her over to some system, some institution, some unknown family who might not love her?
Could I betray a mother who believed that leaving her child with me was the best chance she had?
No.
I couldn't.
The air felt heavy as I stood there, holding the clipboard. My reflection stared back at me from the polished counter; tired eyes, messy hair, expression somewhere between defeated and determined.
I wasn't perfect. Not even close. But maybe perfection wasn't what she needed.
Maybe she just needed someone who wouldn't leave.
Someone who wouldn't run.Someone who would try.
Even if he was flawed.
Even if he was terrified.
Even if he signed up for fatherhood while absolutely wasted.
My fingers tightened around the basket handle. Emma blinked up at me… and smiled. A tiny, innocent smile that punched straight through my chest.
That was it.
My heart surrendered.
I had made my choice. I looked back at the employee with determination. She smiled. Like she knew what my choice was and she was happy with it.
"Where do I register her?"