The knock came again. Three soft, deliberate raps against the moss-eaten oak.

Aciel did not move. Her heart, a thing she'd long thought dormant, thudded against her ribs like a trapped bird. Years. It had been years.

She set down the herbs, wiping her hands on her worn apron. Her steps were slow, deliberate, as she crossed the creaking floorboards. She pressed her eye to the gap between the door and its frame.

A figure stood on her threshold. Not a villager with a torch and a pitchfork. Not a child throwing stones. Just... a stranger. Dusty boots, a traveler's cloak, and a face she couldn't quite make out in the fading light.

Aciel's fingers hovered over the iron latch. Her throat tightened. She could pretend she wasn't home. Let them leave. Let the silence return.

But the stranger didn't move. They just waited.