January eleventh, nineteen ninety two

That night the wind threw a fit, throwing the rain about the streets, beating fists against windshields, screaming and shaking the trees, testing their solid foundation. The mild climate of "our fair city" had not reached such extremes in years, or so said the weather man before his image blurred, the connection was lost and all was dark in the big gray house.

Weathered hands fumbled with a box of matches, striking one across the lid and lighting half melted candles one by one. Pupils dilated, adjusting to the darkness reflecting the yellow flames. A Deep brittle voice cursed this world and everything in it. His nearly completed project lay, half abandoned on the table. The watch and its unassembled pieces hand crafted in the timeless fashion of his fathers, fathers gleaming in the candle light.

The wind began to settle its beatings less fervent, its howls becoming whimpers, its throat becoming sore. As its temper died down the man's ears accustomed to the quiet and solitary picked up on another voice; This one much less ancient than the wind, more desperate than angry. A voice that sobbed rather than wailed, then gasped for breath, and began again. Less powerful in its physical strength, but more so in its ability to stir empathy in an old mans heart; a human voice. That of a child.

Calloused fingers find the edges of a frayed Gabardine coat and the garment is sung over broad shoulders. They grasp the handle of the oak door and turn once, hinges moan as it is pushed, tentatively open. A rough voice dares speak above the sighing of the wind

"Who's there?" it asks, not expecting an answer. The child's voice cries. Gray eyes narrow surveying the corners of his garden and there he sees them, bundled in a sheet abandoned on his door step. Strong arms lifted the babies and cradled them against the man's chest

"There there, don't cry" the voice whispered, it's owner carefully adjusted the infants position in his arms. Perhaps he did it because the children's cries would prevent him from getting any sleep that night; perhaps the man possessed something akin to a human conscience that refused to let him turn a blind eye. For whatever the reason he brought the helpless strangers into his house without a moment's hesitation. He closed and locked the door.

Inside the dimly lit safety of the gray house The man could see the children's faces now, although not clearly. They no longer appeared as rounded surfaces with shadows for features. He lay the bundle on his sofa and dialed the local police station on his mobile phone.

January 13th 1992

"The hospital ran some tests on them they seem to be physically in good health, underdeveloped but otherwise okay"

"Underdeveloped is not 'okay' Antonio"

"But they aren't hurt and they're stabilized that's good isn't it?"

"I suppose" Arthur Kirkland sighed and let his head rest on his cluttered desk, over worked hands grasped his pen and began to fill out the report on their own accord.

"Once they're discharged they'll need somewhere to stay"

"Don't look at me, I have my hands full with Alfred and, and…"

"Matthew?"

"Right, Matthew."

"Well I guess I could take them, just until the orphanage has room again"

"Good,"

"How old are they?"

"Almost a year"

"Both of them?"

"They're twins"

"Huh, they don't look that much alike, non paternal?"

"Yep".

"What are their names?"

"The one with the blue eyes is Ludwig"

"There is one strange thing about it though"

"What would that be?"

"Ludwig had a name tag attached to his shirt, that's how we knew, the other didn't, whoever abandoned them only named one"

"I see, has the other been named yet?"

"Francis wants to call him Albert"

"What? No that's too close to Alfred. "Besides, Francis recommended it"

"Okay how about, Gilbert then"

"Sure, that will do just fine."

"Antonio"

"Yeah?"

"You said that the strange thing about this case was that only one of them had been named"

"Um, yeah I did"

"That means you no longer think of children being abandoned as…unusual"

"Well I hear about it happening all the time in this line of work, so no; it doesn't seem unusual to me. Not anymore."

"That's sad."

"Is it?"

"Yes