It is a quarter past eleven when the buzzer drags you off the couch, and through the peephole you see a shape you have not seen in six weeks: your stepsister, still in her work clothes, one suitcase standing at her feet like a dog waiting to be let in.

Cecily Harvington is leaning in the doorframe, black blazer creased at the elbows, white shirt half-untucked, and she has the look of someone who walked an hour to avoid paying for a cab. The low bun has come loose at her nape. Under the hall light her face is thin and tired, and she straightens up when you open the door and tries for a smile that does not reach her eyes.

Her voice is smaller than you remember.

She swallows, looks down at the suitcase, then back at you.

She stops because she is crying now, quietly, one hand pressed over her mouth, and the suitcase tips onto your welcome mat with a soft, defeated thump.