Shh. You're not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

You shouldn’t let her in, but you do.

She steps in slow, dripping rainwater on the floorboards. Her soaked clothes clinging to her thin frame, her hair matted against her cheeks.

She stays right by the door. One hand still on the knob. You don’t ask her to close it.

Probably should though. Emmy likes to bolt outside if she gets the chance, then hides under your car. It's going to be a total pain in the ass trying to get her out in the middle of a rainstorm.

Mariana is staring at the living room like it might bite.

Smart woman.

You scratch the back of your neck sheepishly. “You hungry?”

Her eyes flick to you. Then down. Then back. She nods.

“Alright.” You tilt your head toward the kitchen. “You can sit. Or don’t. Doesn’t matter.”

She doesn’t move.

You go to the kitchen anyway. Grab a plate. Heat up leftover pasta in the microwave, set it on the table with a fork and a paper towel.

She watches all of it from the doorway.

You gesture to the chair. “Food’s not poisoned. Promise.”

She finally steps forward. Slowly, like it might be a trap. She sits, but only barely. Perched on the edge of the seat, one foot already pointed toward the door.

Her hands shake a little when she picks up the fork.

You lean on the counter, arms crossed and pretend to study your cuticles.

“You got somewhere to go, Mariana?”

She chews. Swallows. “Nowhere. Not anymore.”

You nod. About what you expected. “You’re soaked. Shower’s down the hall. I’ll leave some clothes on the sink.”

She freezes. Eyes narrow, guarded. “Why... you do this?”

“Because you’re cold. And wet. And I’ve got hot water and dry clothes.”

Her mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. “Is too easy, no?”

You shrug. “I don’t have a better reason.”

She stops chewing. Looks at you with the same guarded stare she’s had since the second you opened the door. But this time, there’s something else in it too. Fatigue deep enough to drown in. Like whatever you are, whatever this is, she just doesn’t have the energy to care anymore.

You do something stupid. You breathe and open the door. Not the kind made with words, but the other one. The quiet one. You reach past fear, past the things she’s guarding, until you find the thread you're looking for, and gently, you pull.

Trust me, you say, without actually asking.

“Okay,” she says. “Thank you.”

There you go, that wasn't so hard, was it?

You leave joggers and a long-sleeve on the counter. Knock once on the door. “Clothes are there.”

The shower kicks on. You sit on the couch and finally let yourself exhale.

She’s in there a long time.

When she finally steps out, she’s shivering. Shoulders tight, clutching the too-long sleeves in both hands.

You look up.

“Shit. Water heater’s been busted. Should’ve warned you that the hot water doesn't last that long.”

She wraps the sleeves tighter around her hands. “It’s okay. Was clean. I... I feel better.”

You stand and head toward the closet. “Blanket?”

“Yes, please.”

You hand it over and she wraps herself in it like she’s afraid it’ll be taken back. Then she sits on the edge of the couch and doesn’t quite relax.

“You can sleep there,” you say. “Nobody’s gonna bother you.”

She watches you. Still wary.

You point to the chair across the room. “I’ll be over there. That’s it.”

She nods.

As you start to walk past, she asks, “Why you let me in?”

You pause. You think about lying, then decide against it. “You reminded me of someone.”

“Who?”

“Not sure,” you say. “Haven’t remembered yet.”

She’s quiet for a long moment.

“…thank you,” she says softly.

You nod once. Turn off the lamp. And sit in the chair, eyes on the front door, listening to the wind rattle the siding.

The rain rattles the siding. A gutter outside taps like it’s trying to get in.

You shift in the chair. Your back’s already protesting the angle, but you don’t move. Just keep your eyes half-lidded, watching the dark for motion that doesn’t belong.

Emmy pads in from wherever she vanished to earlier.

She stares across the room at Mariana. Then at you, then back again. Eventually, she decides Mariana isn’t a threat. Or she’s too wet to be interesting. Either way, the cat curls into a warm little loaf in front of the TV and shuts her eyes.

Mariana shifts under the blanket. Not asleep. Just still. You can hear the breath she’s trying to slow down. Not the sharp kind, not panic... just vigilance. Muscle memory from too many nights on too many strange floors.

You lean your head back and close your eyes. Not to sleep. Just to rest the part of your brain that gets too loud.

Eventually, her voice breaks the silence.

“You live here alone?”

You nod, eyes still shut. “Yeah.”

“Long time?”

“Just over a year now.”

She’s quiet again. You wait. Eventually, she tries again.

“Before, you say… I remind you of someone.”

You open your eyes. Look at her through the dark. Her outline is barely visible against the worn cushions and oversized blanket. Just a shape. Just a voice.

“Yeah,” you say. “Don’t know who. Just… felt familiar.”

She exhales slowly. “People say that. When they want to be kind.”

“I don’t do kind,” you say. “Not unless I mean it.”

Another long pause. Then, “My husband… he was kind.”

Your brow twitches. “Was?”

She nods. “Died. During war.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

Her voice doesn’t crack. Doesn’t shake. But it’s flat in a way that says it’s still too soon.

You look down at your hands. Scarred knuckles. Faint burn marks along your palm. The little souvenirs you never remember getting.

“I wasn’t always alone,” you say. Not sure why.

Mariana doesn’t ask. She just shifts a little, making space in the silence for both of you to stay there without saying more.

Eventually, you say: “You got papers?”

A bitter little laugh. “No.”

“Tracker implant?”

She stiffens. “No.” Then adds, “I—I check every day. Knife. Mirror. Is nothing.”

You nod. Tracker would’ve glowed faint under the surface. You’d have seen it.

“I know someone who could help,” you say quietly. “A woman. Quiet, discreet. Makes IDs. Might get you a name again.”

Mariana’s voice is small. “What would it cost?”

You glance over at her. “Nothing tonight.”

She doesn’t speak again after that.

And neither do you.