It was a freezing December night, the kind where silence feels heavier than snow. I was 25, driving an empty school bus back to the depot, convinced my life was stuck in neutral. The heater rattled, the road was empty, and Christmas was only days away.
Then I saw him.
A small boy stood under a flickering streetlight, clutching a worn backpack and a stuffed bunny held tight against his chest. He looked six—maybe younger. He wasn’t playing. He was running from something.
I slammed the brakes.
When the doors opened, icy air rushed in. The boy looked up at me with eyes no child should ever have.
“My mom died today,” he said quietly.
No screaming. No drama. Just shock.
He told me strangers had tried to take him away. So he ran.
I wrapped him in my jacket, sat him in the front seat, and promised he was safe. His name was Gabriel. He didn’t cry. He just held that bunny and stared straight ahead, like his soul was somewhere else entirely.
That night changed my life.
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