That night, Greenwood Cemetery on the edge of Brooklyn was drowning beneath a relentless winter rain. The sky pressed low and heavy, so dark that the few working lamps along the narrow paths seemed to flicker in exhaustion, casting weak circles of light over soaked earth and tilted headstones. Water streamed along the stone borders like silent rivers, carrying fallen leaves into shallow pools.
No sensible person would wander into a cemetery after midnight, especially not during a storm that numbed the hands and soaked clothing to the skin. Yet under the crumbling wooden overhang of an old caretaker shed stood a man who had nowhere else to go.
His name was Thomas Calder, a forty eight year old cab driver who had spent more than half his life driving strangers through the sleepless streets of New York. His yellow taxi, an aging sedan with faded paint and a cracked dashboard, idled nearby like a loyal animal waiting for instruction. Thomas cared for it with the same quiet attention he once gave his family.
His wife had passed away from illness many years earlier. Their young son had died in a traffic accident before reaching his tenth birthday. Since then, Thomas had learned how to exist without expecting joy. He worked nights, slept days, and lived alone in a small apartment near Flatbush Avenue. Silence had become his closest companion.
The rain intensified, drumming against the metal roof above him, and Thomas decided it was time to leave. As he reached for his keys, a sound sliced through the storm and froze him in place.
It was a human voice. Weak. Strained. Barely louder than the rain.
He listened again, hoping it was his imagination. Then it came once more, clearer this time, filled with pain and desperation.
“Please. Someone help me.”
His breath caught in his throat. In a place like this, at such an hour, a living voice felt more frightening than anything supernatural. Thomas hesitated only a moment before switching on his phone light and stepping beyond the shelter.
He followed the sound between rows of graves, his shoes sinking into mud, his light trembling as much from fear as from the cold. Rain plastered his hair to his forehead, and his heart thudded painfully in his chest.
Then he saw her. A woman lay propped against a marble crypt, its surface stained dark by rain. Her coat was torn, her shoes lost, and her long dark hair clung to her face. Blood spread beneath her, diluted by rainwater that flowed toward the path.
She was heavily pregnant. She lifted her head with effort, her eyes locking onto him with fierce urgency. “Sir,” she whispered, her voice breaking, “the baby is coming.”