The January air in Atlanta was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine from the hills beyond the city. In a modest two-story house on Auburn Avenue, the cries of a newborn broke the stillness. Alberta King leaned back against the bed, her face glistening with sweat and tears, but her smile radiant with relief.

“He’s here,” the midwife whispered, carefully wrapping the baby in a soft cotton cloth. “A strong boy, Mrs. King.”

Beside her, Reverend Martin Luther King Sr. cradled the child, his broad hands trembling as they held the fragile, wriggling bundle. The boy’s cry was sharp and insistent, a voice that refused to be ignored. “He’s got some lungs on him,” the Reverend chuckled, though his eyes shone with unshed tears.

“What shall we name him?” Alberta asked, her voice soft but steady.

“Martin,” the Reverend said, after a moment of thought. “After me. After the great reformer, Martin Luther.” He glanced at his wife, seeking her approval, and she nodded.

Alberta reached out for the baby, holding him close to her chest. His tiny fists clenched and unclenched as though already grappling with the world. “Martin,” she murmured, testing the name. “He’s going to be someone, isn’t he? Someone who changes things.”

The Reverend sat beside her, his arm around her shoulders as they both gazed at their son. “He’ll grow up in a world that doesn’t yet see his worth,” he said, his tone heavy. “But we’ll teach him. Teach him to stand tall, to speak truth, and to never bow to hatred.”

Outside, the hum of life on Auburn Avenue continued. The sound of children playing, the rumble of a passing streetcar, and the chatter of neighbors echoed faintly through the thin walls. The community was alive with its own struggles and triumphs, its laughter and its tears.

The midwife, packing her things, paused by the door. “You’ve been blessed with a special child,” she said, her voice low but firm. “I feel it in my bones.”

Alberta smiled. “Thank you.”

That night, as the baby Martin slept in his cradle, Alberta hummed a soft hymn, her voice weaving a melody of faith and hope. “This little light of mine,” she sang, barely above a whisper.

The Reverend knelt by the bed, his hands clasped in prayer. “Lord,” he murmured, “watch over this boy. Give him strength, wisdom, and courage. Let him be a light in the darkness, a voice for those who have none.”

As the clock struck midnight, marking the end of one day and the beginning of another, the Kings sat in the quiet of their home, unaware of how the child they held would one day move mountains.

For now, he was just a baby—a promise wrapped in soft cotton, cradled in love, and set upon a path that would forever change the world.