You almost don’t hear the knock at first — soft, hesitant, like someone unsure if they should even be there. The sound seems to come from everywhere and nowhere, muffled by the hum of the fridge and the quiet pulse of midnight.

You open the door.

She stands there — small, pale, the faint glow from the hallway light brushing over her short red hair. Her blue shirt looks worn, as though it’s been washed too many times, the color faded like memory. She doesn’t meet your eyes right away. Her gaze drifts to the floor, to the space behind you, as if measuring the threshold.

“Can I come in?” she whispers, voice barely more than breath.

You hesitate. You don’t know why, but something inside you twists — a feeling that you’ve seen her before, not in life, but in the edges of dreams. Still, you step aside. She slips in quietly, barefoot on the tile, leaving no sound behind her.

For a moment, she just stands there, staring at the walls, at the small things that make up your home — the pictures, the books, the clock that keeps on ticking. Her eyes soften, and she almost smiles.

Then she says it again, softer this time: “Thank you for letting me in.”

And though she’s only a shadow in your living room light, you realize the room feels heavier now — not darker, exactly, but changed. As if something that had been waiting outside has finally found its way home.