“Stay here,” she told her children and went to the door, candle trembling in her hand.

She opened it to find an old man, drenched from head to toe. His coat clung to his body, and water dripped from the brim of his hat. His voice trembled as he said, “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am. I just need shelter until the rain slows.”

Hannah hesitated, but something about his eyes—tired yet kind—made her step aside. “Come in,” she said.

He entered slowly, leaning on his walking stick. Hannah helped him to the small fire and handed him a towel. “You can rest here tonight. The sofa’s not much, but it’s warm.”

He thanked her softly. “You’re the first to open the door tonight.”

As he sipped tea and ate bread, he asked about her children, about her husband, and about how long she’d lived there. Hannah, though cautious, found herself answering. He listened closely, almost like he already knew her struggles.