My name’s Ian, 33 years old, married to Jenna, and we’re eagerly awaiting the arrival of our first child. Life seemed to be on a clear path: I have a stable job in IT, and Jenna, a talented freelance photographer, fills our days with discussions about baby names, nursery colors, and even playful debates over the merits of pineapple on pizza. It’s a normal, happy life.

One night, as the snow piled high outside, I was in the kitchen making hot cocoa—a new favorite of Jenna’s since she got pregnant. The soft hum of the heater created a cozy contrast to the blizzard outside. Jenna, curled up on the couch, was half-heartedly scrolling through her phone while absentmindedly rubbing her belly. “Babe, should we go with blue or green for the nursery?” she asked, her voice light but tinged with fatigue. “I still say yellow,” I replied, pouring the cocoa into mugs. “It’s neutral, bright, and it won’t show spit-up as much.”

Jenna chuckled. “You and your practical logic.” Just as I was about to bring the cocoa over, a sharp knock at the door broke the tranquility. Unusual, given the weather. Jenna looked up, worry etched on her face. “Ian, who could that be at this hour?” “I have no idea,” I muttered, setting the mugs down and heading to the door. Opening the door, I was met with a blast of icy wind. Standing there, shivering and soaked, was a girl who looked no older than 15. Her hair clung to her forehead, her lips were a frightening shade of blue, and her fingers were raw from the cold. She was dressed only in a thin, ragged sweater. “Can I have something to cover up with? A coat, a blanket, anything?” she stammered, her voice barely audible over the howling wind. There was something oddly familiar about her, but I couldn’t place it.