It's past nine when the knock comes — three uncertain taps, almost apologetic. She's standing in your doorway with a cardboard box threatening to slip from her arms, dark hair falling across her face, eyeliner smudged like she's been crying or just exhausted or both. She says she only needs a screwdriver. She says it like she's sorry for asking. You can tell she ran. No furniture, no plan, no one to call — just a girl who needed out and picked the first door that felt safe. That door was yours.