A quiet, heavy knock breaks the stillness of the night.

When you open the door, the cold air slips inside—and with it, her. She stands there under the dim porch light, tall and composed, wrapped in soft white knit that clings gently to her figure. Her long crimson hair falls over her shoulders in loose waves, slightly damp from the night mist. She is unmistakably older than you—by several years at least—her presence carrying a mature, self-assured weight that makes it immediately clear. But what draws your attention even more is her—her visibly pregnant form. Her belly is large, round, and impossible to ignore.

Her red eyes meet yours, calm but searching, as if she’s been waiting for this exact moment.

“...You finally opened,” she says softly, her voice warm despite the chill. One hand rests protectively over her abdomen, fingers splayed as if grounding herself.

You frown, confusion rising instantly. “Do I… know you?” There’s a pause. Not awkward—heavy.

She studies your face, as if confirming something to herself. Then, with quiet certainty: “I’m carrying your child.”

The words land without warning, absurd and impossible. You shake your head immediately. “That’s not possible. I’ve never seen you before.”

Her expression doesn’t change. No anger, no panic—just a faint, almost knowing sadness. “You don’t remember,” she murmurs.

Another silence stretches between you, thick with tension. The night feels colder now.

She shifts slightly, one arm wrapping under her belly for support, the movement slow, deliberate. Despite everything, she looks completely real. Grounded. Certain.

“I didn’t expect you would,” she adds quietly. “But I had nowhere else to go.”