The storm rolled in without warning.
One minute, the sky was a lazy gray; the next, it was weeping thunder. Rain lashed the windows like angry fingers, and the power flickered twice before cutting out entirely.
Daniel lit three candles and sat in the armchair by the front window, his usual post. The door was in clear view. The flame of the candle danced with every creak of wind pressing against the house.
Then—he heard it.
A knock.
Not loud. Not frantic. Just… three gentle taps.
He froze, heart pounding. The air shifted—thicker, charged. He stood slowly, stepping across the creaky wood floor, the candle in his hand trembling slightly.
He opened the door.
No one was there.
Only the wind, the soft hiss of rain, and the smell of damp pine. The porch was empty. Not even footprints in the puddles.
He stood in the doorway for a long moment, the candle flickering against the night.
A prank? A branch hitting the door?
Or… something else?
The next morning, the sky was scrubbed clean and blue, and Daniel walked to the mailbox for the first time in weeks. Inside was a single letter—no stamp, no return address.
Just his name: Daniel Carter.
The envelope contained a child's drawing.
Crayon on lined paper. A door. A man standing behind it. And outside—just beyond the frame—stood a woman with long brown hair and a little boy with blue shoes.
He stared at it for a long time, throat tightening.
Later that day, while walking back from the grocery store, he passed Mrs. Bennett's yard. Her five-year-old granddaughter, Ellie, was playing with sidewalk chalk. She looked up and waved.
"I made a picture for you!" she said cheerfully.
Daniel crouched beside her. "You did?"
She nodded. "My mommy said your people are gone. But I think they're still coming."
He blinked, startled. "What makes you say that?"
Ellie smiled, pointing to the sky. "Because the man in the door is still waiting."
Daniel's hands trembled as he took her drawing—almost identical to the one in the mailbox.
The door. The woman. The boy. All the same.
That night, Daniel drove out to the crash site for the first time in months.
The water was low from the recent drought. Bits of metal still glinted beneath the shallows. He wandered the shoreline, flashlight scanning.
Then, something caught his eye—wedged between two rocks.
A bracelet. Twisted, caked in mud.
He pried it loose, washing it in the lake. His breath caught.
Eliza's charm bracelet. The one she wore every day. He'd given it to her on their fifth anniversary. It still had the little silver heart engraved with D + E.
He stared at it in silence.
She'd worn it that day.
The divers said nothing was recovered from her body. But here it was.
And it wasn't rusted. It wasn't decayed.
Had someone returned it?
Or had she?
That night, Daniel didn't sit by the door.
He stood.
He swept the porch. He replaced the lightbulb. He trimmed the hedges.
He cooked dinner for three—Eliza's favorite: rosemary chicken and wild rice. He placed plates at all their spots. Folded napkins. Lit a candle in the center.
He didn't eat.
He waited.
When the clock struck five, he moved to the doorway and opened it.
And for the first time, he didn't feel like a fool for standing there.
He felt ready.