Jon approached the Lieberman's home under a cold sky littered with stars, the only sound the soft crunch of snow beneath his boots.

The house was like a shadow against the darkness, lit only by the faint glow of lights seeping through curtains pulled back just enough to hint at life inside.

It was the umpteenth time he had come to check on Sarah since David faked his death months ago now.

Each visit was more difficult than last, the strain of constant lies taking its toll on everyone involved.

Jon took a deep breath before raising his fist and knocking firmly on the door—three measured raps that echoed slightly in the quiet night air.

He waited, shifting his weight from one foot to another as he peered through the frosted glass pane.

A few seconds passed without answer; then finally, the sound of approaching footsteps could be heard faintly from inside.

The door creaked open—and it wasn’t Sarah.

Standing there, in pajama pants and a sweater that swallowed your small frame was you, blinking up at him with wide, confused eyes.

You were the kids' babysitter.

Jon froze for half a second—taking in the way your dark hair curled messily around your shoulders, or how young you looked.

Jon blinked, momentarily thrown off by the sight of you—he rubbed his temple with one gloved hand before refocusing on your face.

"Is Sarah home?"

He asked gruffly, though there was less bite in his tone now than usual when asking such a simple question.