On a quiet Saturday morning, my brother Jake and I were riding back from our coffee run when we spotted them—two little blonde girls, sitting alone at a bus stop, wearing neon yellow safety shirts and holding a blue balloon. A small paper bag sat between them, and something about the scene didn’t sit right.
As we approached, I noticed the younger girl crying while her older sister gently held her. Jake and I stopped and crouched down. “Hey there, little ones,” Jake said softly. “Where’s your mama?”
The older girl pointed to the bag. Inside, we found juice boxes, clothes, bread, and a folded note:
“I can’t do this anymore. Please take care of Lily and Rose. They deserve a life. I’m sorry.”
No name. No number. Just two little girls, left with hope that someone kind would find them.
“Your names?” I asked.
“I’m Lily. She’s Rose. Our mama said someone nice would find us,” Lily whispered.
Jake’s tough biker face cracked, tears rolling down his beard. He hugged them tight. “I got you. You’re safe now. I promise.”
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