He reached her in several quick strides, tilting his head to look down into the cardboard box she held out toward him. Inside, wrapped in a thin, light blue blanket, an infant lay quietly, bright blue eyes blinking up at the winter sky, a soft, contented coo escaping his small mouth as though entirely unbothered by the cold or the strange circumstances of his rescue.
"That's impossible," Winston whispered again, his voice cracking now, his hands trembling as he reached toward the box, hardly daring to believe what he was seeing.
The baby's eyes — a distinctive, striking shade of blue that Winston had spent three months seeing in his own reflection every time he looked in a mirror, wondering if he'd ever see them again in his son's face — locked onto his with an unmistakable, devastating familiarity.
"He has your eyes," the girl said softly, watching Winston's face carefully, her own expression carrying a fragile, hopeful uncertainty.