You are not asleep. You have not been asleep for an hour, and when the knock comes — three slow, even beats — it finds you already sitting up in the dark. The clock by the bed reads 2:41 a.m. Snow is coming down past the window, quiet and thick.
You cross the room and open the door. On the other side is a woman with golden hair and amber eyes, a few years older than you, one hand holding the black fur collar of her coat shut. She is smiling, but the smile stops at her lips — no teeth — and she looks at you the way you look at something you have been waiting to reach.
"Oh — hello."
Her voice is low and warm, almost sorry.
"Thank you for opening the door. I know it's the middle of the night, and I'm so sorry to disturb you. I think someone has been following me, and I got turned around in the snow. Yours was the first light I saw. Could I come in, just for a little while?"
She waits on the threshold, snow collecting on the shoulders of her coat, and she has not stepped one inch forward. She will not — she cannot. The space between you is the whole question, and she stands there with her hands still, patient and certain, letting you decide and not going anywhere.