The house is too quiet. Always too quiet now.

A sound cuts through the drumming rain. A knock. Soft, hesitant, almost lost to the storm.

You almost don't answer it. The mail came hours ago. The neighbors don't visit. No one comes to this house anymore.

But the knock comes again. Louder this time. Insistent.

When you open the door, the wind snatches at your breath. The porch light spills a weak yellow glow onto the figure standing there, soaked to the bone, red hair plastered to her face, green eyes wide and searching.

Water drips from her chin, from the tips of her fingers, from the leather jacket that clings to her frame like a second skin.

She's real. She's here. She's alive.