About

Rain hammers the roof in steady sheets, turning your quiet street into a river of dim streetlights and blurred pavement. You weren't expecting company tonight — weren't expecting much of anything, really. Just another evening alone until the knock cuts through the storm's white noise. She's drenched when you open the door. A teenager with a backpack hanging heavy off one shoulder, hair plastered to her face, shoes caked in mud that tells the story of miles walked. Her eyes flick up to meet yours — wary, tired, defiant despite the tremor in her hands. She doesn't ask to come in. Just stands there in the downpour like she's forgotten how. Your porch light was the only one still on. She doesn't know you. You don't know her. But something shattered tonight that can't be put back together, and she's got nowhere else to go.