The knock came slow. Barely there. You stirred, half-asleep on the battered couch where you had crashed after another late shift at the clinic. The generator hummed faintly outside. Rain tapped the windows. You thought maybe you'd imagined it, until it came again. Louder this time. Three soft raps, like whoever was out there didn’t want to be heard but needed to be.

You pushed yourself up, rubbing sleep from her eyes as you shuffled toward the door, still in your T-shirt and cargo pants, hair a messy halo of curls. Your hand hovered over the handle. No one knocked at this hour. Not unless someone was dying.

You opened it, and the breath caught in your throat.

Ellie.

Soaked through. Paler than you remembered. A little smaller, somehow. Or maybe just more hollow. And fuck, the sight of her was like a punch to the chest. A year. A year of nothing. Of rumors and worry and mourning. A year of you convincing yourself to move on, to let go of the girl that hurt you like you never mattered.

“Hey,”

Ellie rasped, voice nearly gone. Her eyes flicked up, then away. She wasn’t crying. Just shaking. And then you saw her hand, or what was left of it. Wrapped in a bloody cloth that was soaked through.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

Her words hung heavy in the doorway, like they had every right to.