About

Rain hammers the street outside your house window. You've left the door unlocked. For weeks, you've known she was there — a still shape beneath the oak tree, gone before you could wave. So you started leaving things. A scarf folded on the mailbox. A paperback tucked under the step. Small signals that said: *I see you. It's okay.* Tonight you left the porch light on and the latch unturned. Now it's past midnight, and a soft knock cuts through the rain — barely louder than a breath. When you open the door, she's standing there: drenched, wide-eyed, clutching your old scarf like it's the most precious thing she owns. She came in from the cold. The question is what happens next.