On a quiet road beneath the warm morning sky, the traffic light turned red and a young woman crossed with her baby in a small carriage.
Halfway across, the toy in the baby's tiny hand slipped to the road. The baby burst into tears. The woman did not notice at first, but after taking a few more steps, the crying made her glance down. Only then did she see the toy lying behind them.
She turned back, hurried to grab it, and at that same moment a luxurious yellow sports car sped down the road toward the carriage.
The woman dropped the toy and ran. By the time she reached the handle, the car was already half a meter away. She froze. She tightened her grip on the carriage, her eyes locked on her crying baby as if the whole world had narrowed to that tiny face.
Just before the collision, the driver jerked the wheel. The car swerved past them, barely missing them, never slowing down.
A long moment passed before she dared open her eyes. When she saw the empty road ahead, tears spilled from her lashes. She lifted the baby into her arms and broke into helpless sobs.
Suddenly, tires screeched behind her. A plain black car drifted sideways and blocked the path of the yellow sports car. Forced to brake, the sports car screeched to a stop, its bumper only a foot from the black car's door.
A woman in her late thirties stepped out. Pale skin, sharp eyes, her black reporter's coat whipping in the morning breeze, she moved with purpose. Before the driver could react, she smashed the yellow car's window with a stone and yanked the door open.
The young mother held her baby close, trying to hear the argument from afar.
The reporter dragged the driver out by his collar and marched him toward the mother. When she glanced at the baby, her expression softened. She touched the baby's hair gently, still gripping the man's collar with the other hand.
The moment her fingers brushed the baby's head, the crying stopped. The tiny face brightened into a smile.
The driver shouted, "Why are you dragging me? I did nothing. She is the one who crossed late!"
The reporter pulled his tie sharply. The force made his phone fall from his pocket. It hit the ground, screen lighting up. A wallpaper showed a laughing little girl holding a toy.
The reporter's eyes narrowed. "Is she your daughter?"
He swallowed and nodded.
She pointed at the traffic camera overhead. "I saw you jump the signal. And I can prove it. If I report this to the police, the media will have the footage within an hour."
His face turned pale.
She continued, "Do you want your little girl to see you on the news like that? Or will you apologize to this mother?"
Sweat rolled down his temple. He turned to the woman and muttered, "Sorry."
The reporter tugged his tie again and brought his face close to hers. "Should I inform the police?"
His legs shook. "I will apologize properly. Please don't report it."
She released his tie. He immediately faced the mother, bowed his head, and said with genuine guilt, "I am sorry for my behavior."
Still trembling, the mother looked at the reporter and blinked, as if signaling that she accepted the apology.
The reporter said calmly, "You can leave."
He grabbed his phone and ran to his car without looking back. A moment later, he sped away.
The reporter turned to the mother. "Can you walk?"
"I think so."
Seeing her still crying uncontrollably, the reporter said, "Wait here." She rushed to her car and drove it over.
She lifted the carriage into the trunk. "Let me take you home," she said gently.
The mother, exhausted and shaken, nodded and got inside.
"Where do you live?" the reporter asked as she started the engine.
"I am new here. I don't know the name of the area, but I know the way."
The reporter nodded and began driving while saying "Show me the way".
The mother pointed toward a toy store. "Turn right there."
The reporter stopped suddenly and exclaimed, "Your finger is bleeding!"
The mother checked her hand. Blood covered her fingertip, though there was no cut.
Realizing something, she quickly examined the baby and found a small cut on its tiny hand.
The reporter's expression tightened with worry. "We will go to my place first. We need to do first-aid for the baby." Her eyes shimmered with tears she was trying to hold back.
Watching the emotion in the reporter's face, the mother remained silent.
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As the car stopped in front of a small house, the reporter hurried out and opened the mother's door. "This is my house," she said, already rushing toward the entrance.
She unlocked the door in haste and disappeared inside.
Loud noises erupted. Metal vessels clattered. Drawers slid open and slammed shut. Cupboards banged one after another.
Moments later, she returned with a first-aid box and said, "Why are you standing outside? Come in."
The mother and baby giggled softly at the chaotic sounds they had heard and stepped inside.
The reporter sat on the couch, opened the kit, and soaked a cotton pad with disinfectant. She gently cleaned the baby's wound and placed a small bandage on the cut.
The mother watched quietly. When the reporter finished, she murmured, "Thank you," but the reporter had already moved on.
"Do you want anything to drink?" she asked.
"No…" the mother said, but the reporter was already inside the kitchen.
With no choice, the mother waited and played with her baby while glancing around the hall.
The home was small and warm. A couch, a TV, and a wooden table filled the space. A staircase curled upward in the corner. Brown walls were covered with certificates, framed articles, and awards. But the front wall stood out most, covered entirely with photographs from floor to ceiling.
One picture showed an old man posing while a much younger reporter chased a small child running away from both of them. Another showed her holding a baby while the same old man stood beside her. More photos followed with her and the boy as he grew older, in school uniforms, in casual clothes, in sports outfits. One photo had the two of them in beachwear, with the boy glancing shyly at her.
Above all of them hung a slightly larger frame with a drawing of an eye containing a single red line inside the pupil. Beneath it was one word.
As the mother studied the photos, the reporter returned with a tray. A glass of juice and a small cup of clear liquid sat on it.
She handed the juice to the mother and carefully lifted the baby from her arms. Placing the child on her lap, she fed the clear liquid with a tiny spoon.
After two spoonfuls, she glanced at the mother. "This is very good for babies."
After feeding the whole cup, she asked, "I forgot to ask your name. Mine is Mary. And you are?"
The mother smiled, "I am Isha."
Mary smiled warmly. "I think many people must have told you this, but you really look like an Angel."
Isha's smile brightened her face even more.
Then she grew curious and fell silent.
Noticing it, Mary asked, "Is there something you want to ask?"
"I was wondering what you do," Isha replied. "From how you treated the wound, you seem like a doctor. But also, I feel like I've seen you a lot."
Mary laughed. "I am a news reporter. Maybe you have seen me on TV. I am not a doctor. Jack used to get hurt constantly when he was young, so I became good at first aid."
Seeing Isha's puzzled look, she added, "Jack is my son."
Isha glanced at the wall of photographs again.
Mary nodded. "Yes, that boy in all those pictures is Jack. It is our little tradition. Every year we take a family photo."
Isha smiled and then looked up at the drawing. Something clicked in her mind.
She turned quickly to Mary. "Are you the owner of the Reveal News? The famous reporter Mary?"
Mary smiled modestly. "I am not sure about being famous, but yes, I own Reveal."
Isha's eyes sparkled with excitement. "I always wanted to work in your channel! I was actually searching for your building this morning, and that was when that car almost hit us."
Mary looked guilty. "I didn't know you were searching for it. I brought you here instead. And you already passed the building earlier. It is the one behind the traffic camera I pointed out to that driver."
Isha beamed. "Why apologize? I am already talking to the owner. Why would I still need the building?"
Mary laughed. "There are channels far more popular than mine. Why do you want to work with us?"
"It is hard to explain," Isha said shyly. "But I always wanted to. And your channel is quite famous. It is the fourth most popular news channel in the kingdom."
Mary chuckled. "That is a creative way to say it is the least popular one, since the kingdom has only four channels."
Isha smiled thinly. "The truth is… you have been my role model for a long time. I always wanted to work under you. But I thought you would see me as naïve if I said that, so I pretended I didn't recognize you."