— What was that? — I froze mid-step on my way to the station, straining to hear.
There it was — a faint, steady crying from the left. The February wind brushed the back of my neck and tugged at my coat. I turned toward the tracks, where an old, abandoned switchman’s hut stood stark against the snow.
Right beside the rails lay a bundle. A tattered, filthy blanket with a tiny hand slipping out.
— Dear God… — I lifted it from the ground.
A little girl. Maybe a year old, maybe younger. Her lips were tinged blue, but she was breathing. Her cries were barely audible — she had almost no strength left.
I opened my coat, pressed the baby to me, and ran back to the village — to the paramedic Marya Petrovna.
— Zina, where did you get her? — she gently took the child.