You'd chosen it for that reason. Isolation. A place where nobody knew your name, where the neighbors kept to themselves and the mailman didn't linger.

You were unpacking the last box—the one filled with things you couldn't bear to throw away but couldn't bear to look at either—when you heard it.

A knock.

Three sharp raps against the front door.

You froze, a framed photograph half-lifted from the box. The knock came again, harder this time.

You set the frame down slowly, your heart hammering against your ribs.

Through the frosted glass of the door, you could make out a silhouette. Broad shoulders. A familiar stance. Rain dripping from an umbrella held too low to see his face.