Morning light filtered through the brownstone’s living room as Lois lifted the eighth bag from the basket. Clark joined her, still adjusting the strap of the baby carrier where Martha kicked happily.
“Ready?” Lois asked.
Clark nodded and guided Martha’s small hand to pull the string loose. Inside was a shepherd figurine and the folded note.
He held the shepherd between two fingers. Lois unfolded the paper and read:
His teachers saw him even before he saw himself. They nudged, encouraged, redirected. He tried sports. He tried writing. He tried finding out who he was. Each adult who believed in him became a quiet guide, a steady presence pointing him toward the path he could not yet name. Like shepherds watching a child from a distance, they kept him moving toward the light without him ever realizing he was being led.
They placed the shepherd on the mantel, then bundled up for the day.
***
The morning fell apart the moment they reached the daycare. Two children had spiked fevers, the staff was overwhelmed, and the center had to close. Lois and Clark exchanged a look, work couldn’t wait, the deadline loomed, and they had no backup plan.
So Martha came to the newsroom.
The bullpen paused when Clark walked in with Martha against his chest, wide-eyed and staring at the ceiling lights. Then everything snapped back, phones ringing, keyboards clacking, reporters shouting across desks.
Perry stepped out of his office, coffee in hand. “Great shades of Elvis, bring that child over here.”
Lois blinked. “I’m sorry, but the daycare had to close today. Perry, we’ve got a follow-up to finish. We don’t want to…”
“Oh, for the love of, Lane, Kent, do the job you’re paid to do. I’ve raised two boys. I can handle one tiny girl.” He held out his hands.
Clark hesitated only a second before unbuckling the carrier. Martha looked up at Perry with wide eyes. Perry stared back, cleared his throat, and muttered, “Yeah, well. Let’s get you a proper chair.”
He disappeared into his office with her. The door shut gently behind them.
***
Lois and Clark dove into their work, it wasn’t until Clark paused mid-sentence, head tilted, that Lois noticed.
“What?” she whispered.
“I think I hear… humming?”
“Humming?”
He glanced at Perry's office and pulled his glasses down a bit, then focused his vision through the wall. His expression shifted immediately.
“What?” Lois whispered, joining him. “What’s he doing?”
“He’s on the floor.”
“What?”
Clark’s mouth twitched. “Perry White is sitting cross-legged on his office floor.”
“No.”
“Martha’s on a blanket. He’s shaking a rattle and humming.”
Lois pressed a hand over her mouth, hiding a grin. “If he knew you saw that, he'd deny it and threaten to fire us.”
Clark watched for another second, then looked at Lois. “I’m sure Grandpa Perry is dying to tell her her first Elvis story.”
She nodded. “We’re lucky.”
They got back to their story. Behind Perry’s door, the humming continued, soft and off-key.
Martha was safe. Their work was nearly done.
And another piece of the story had quietly fallen into place.
