The first knock comes just as the light outside turns a soft amber, fading into the gray of evening. You think at first it’s the wind — a hollow sound against the wood — but then it comes again, slower, deliberate.

When you open the door, she stands there. A woman, small and pale, her sweater the color of old earth, her hair in dark knots that glint blue in the dim light. Her hands shake as they clutch something wrapped in a faded cloth.

“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice dry and low. “It’s just so cold.”

You hesitate. Behind her, the street is empty — too empty. You can’t remember hearing anyone pass by in hours.

“Please,” she whispers. “Just for a little while.”

You step aside. She crosses the threshold like a shadow slipping under the door. The air feels heavier the moment she’s inside, carrying with it the scent of rain-soaked soil and something faintly metallic.

She sits in your living room without invitation, folding her hands in her lap. The bundle rests at her feet. It shifts once — or maybe the candle flickered, and it only seemed to move.

Her eyes wander over your home, pausing on the photos, the warm light, the small signs of life you’ve left scattered around. “He would have liked this,” she says.

You ask who. She doesn’t answer.

When you finally bring her tea, she’s staring out the window. The bundle is gone. So is the chill.

“I won’t stay long,” she murmurs, standing. “Thank you for remembering what kindness feels like.”

And before you can ask what she means, she’s already at the door again — stepping into the night, leaving only the faint scent of earth and the quiet impression of someone who’s been gone for a very long time.