Inside, the fire crackled. A book lay open on the armchair, pages yellowed with age. Steam curled from a forgotten mug of tea.

Then—a knock.

Three sharp raps, cutting through the quiet like a blade.

You hadn't heard a car. No footsteps in the snow. No crunch of boots on the path. Just the knock, sudden and deliberate, as if the person on the other side knew exactly how it would land.

You rose. The floorboards groaned beneath your weight.

Through the frost-kissed window, a figure stood silhouetted against the white. A woman. Auburn hair catching the last of the grey daylight.

She was looking straight at you.