There are three beds in the room. Much too high for little legs, iron-framed, made up with stark white hospital sheets. The walls are bare. There's a colouring book, a wind-up toy, a few teddies. I wish there were more.
For Athens' abandoned children, this is home. It's one of the most shocking parts of the financial crisis, one I hadn't realised existed until I came to Greece to present a special BBC Radio 5 live Drive from the heart of the capital.
Some parents, deciding they simply can't afford to keep their children, take them to the hospital and leave them there. Others are so broken by the stress of the financial crisis that they can no longer care for their sons and daughters.
The first thing I did was play, high-fiving small hands and grinning widely, hoping it disguised how I was feeling inside. It gave me time to compose myself before putting their story into words. There are around 20 abandoned children at the Hospital Pedon. The youngest is aged just four months, the oldest is 14 years old.
Each day, volunteers come to feed them, entertain them, help wash and dress them. Most importantly though, they cuddle them and sing softly into their ears, stroke their hair and squeeze them in their arms as tightly as they would their own child. Father Basilious, who runs the Diakonia charity, says the crisis has been tough on them too, many people are struggling so much they don't have the spare time to offer.
I ask Irene, a nurse volunteer, what it's like to work there. She can't come to the hospital every day but wishes she could. "It's difficult, but you have to smile", she says, and points out that my eyes are red. I left this bit in my report, because they were.
I left in the bit where my voice broke just slightly, because it did, and while I don't want you to be distracted by my feelings, I also don't want to hide from you how tough a place it is, and how much anybody standing there among those children would wish they were all in loving, secure homes.
This is one of the toughest parts of reporting. It's all about taking you to places you might not otherwise see, and shining a light on what happens there. The very best journalists tell their stories with clarity and a clear head.
The subject matter alone should be enough to move you. But at the same time, we're all human, and sometimes we show that. For me, it should never be enough to destroy the focus and make the story about us - the people who report the news - but smaller and far more subtle, always making you feel like you're standing there witnessing these things yourself.
We hear about the political summits, the high-level wrangling and the late-night talks. But that doesn't tell the full story. You get to the reality of Greece's financial crisis through the everyday. I met a protestor in his fifties who's been out of work for five years, forcing him to move back in with his mum and dad and live off their pension. A law student who plans to leave Greece in the hope of finding a job straight after graduation, taking much needed youthful energy and skills with him. An accountant who hasn't worked for nine months and has no money to buy anything for her daughter. A taxi driver who yearns for the days of the drachma, when he says things were cheaper and more people used his bright-yellow cab.
The next few days and weeks are crucial for Greece. It's a proud country, one that doesn't want to compromise, but equally one that can't survive without international help - and that won't come without concessions being made. Whatever happens though, it'll be the people living there who'll feel it the most.