For a moment, I just stood there, staring.

It reminded me of that very day. Of the biting cold, of my tiny, frozen fingers, and of the warmth of his rough hands guiding me to safety.

I had spent years wondering who he was, where he had gone, and if he was even still alive.

And now, fate had placed him right in front of me again. But could I truly help him the way he once helped me?

***

I don't have many memories of my parents, but I do remember their faces.

I clearly remember the warmth in my mother's smile and the strength in my father's arms. I also remember the night it all changed.

The night I learned they weren't coming back.

I was only five years old when they died in a car accident, and back then, I didn't even fully understand what death meant. I waited by the window for days, convinced they would walk through the door at any moment. But they never did.

Soon, the foster system became my reality.

I bounced from shelters to group homes to temporary families, never truly belonging anywhere.

Some foster parents were kind, others were indifferent, and a few were downright cruel. But no matter where I ended up, one thing remained the same.

I was alone.

Back then, school was my only escape.

I buried myself in my books, determined to build a future for myself. I worked harder than anyone else, pushing past the loneliness and the uncertainty. And it paid off.

I earned a grant for college, then clawed my way through medical school, eventually becoming a surgeon.

Now, at 38, I have the life I fought for. I spend long hours at the hospital, performing life-saving operations, and barely stopping to catch my breath.

It's exhausting, but I love it.

Some nights, when I walk through my sleek apartment, I think about how proud my parents would be. I wish they could see me now, standing in an operating room, making a difference.

But there's one memory from my childhood that never fades.

I was eight years old when I got lost in the woods.

It was a terrible snowstorm, the kind that blinds you, the kind that makes every direction look the same. I had wandered too far from the shelter I was staying in.

And before I knew it, I was completely alone.

I remember screaming for help. My tiny hands were stiff with cold, and my coat was too thin to protect me. I was terrified.

And then… he appeared.

I saw a man wrapped in layers of tattered clothing. His beard was dusted with snow, and his blue eyes were filled with concern.

When he found me shivering and terrified, he immediately scooped me up in his arms.

I remember how he carried me through the storm, shielding me from the worst of the wind. How he used his last few dollars to buy me hot tea and a sandwich at a roadside café. How he called the cops and made sure I was safe before slipping away into the night, never waiting for a thank you.

That was 30 years ago.

I never saw him again.

Until today.

The subway was packed with the usual chaos.

People were rushing to work while the street musician did his thing in the corner. I was exhausted after a long shift, lost in thought, when my eyes landed on him.

At first, I wasn't sure why he looked familiar. His face was hidden beneath a scruffy gray beard, and he was wearing tattered clothes. His shoulders were slumped forward as if life had worn him down.

As I walked toward him, my gaze landed on something very familiar.

A tattoo on his forearm.

It was a small, faded anchor that immediately reminded me of the day I got lost in the woods.

I looked at the tattoo then back at the man's face, trying my best to remember if it was really him. The only way I could confirm it was by talking to him. And that's what I did.

"Is it really you? Mark?"

He looked up at me, trying to study my face. I knew he wouldn't recognize me because I was just a child the last time he saw me.