Daniel, a single father, pushes his sick one-year-old son, Leo, in a stroller through the quiet, early morning city streets.

The air is crisp, and the world feels paused. Since his wife, Emily, passed away during childbirth, Daniel has done everything he can to keep moving forward—for Leo’s sake. Every cough from the little boy tightens something in Daniel’s chest, a constant reminder of how fragile life can be. On their way to the doctor, they board a nearly empty city bus. As Daniel settles Leo and his bag of baby supplies, he notices an elderly woman fumbling through her purse. Her hands tremble as she counts coins,

not quite enough for the fare. Without hesitation, Daniel steps in and pays for her. She thanks him with watery eyes and, just before getting off at her stop, presses a small folded note into his palm. “You’re kind,” she whispers. “But you need to know… HE IS NOT YOUR SON.” The words hit Daniel like a punch. He stares at the note, heart pounding, mind racing. At the pediatrician’s office, he barely hears the doctor’s words about Leo’s fever.

All he can think about is the note. That night, unable to sleep, he orders a DNA test—part guilt,