Before I left, I scribbled my address and phone number on a scrap of paper.

“In case you ever need help,” I said.

She looked at the paper like it was something fragile. Sacred.

I walked home colder than before—but lighter in a way I hadn’t felt in years.

And then life went on.

Days turned into months. Months into years.

I sometimes wondered about her. Whether she was warm. Whether she’d eaten. Whether my coat was still keeping someone alive somewhere.

But Christmas came and went, as it always did.

Until three years later.

It was Christmas Eve again.

I had just poured myself a cup of tea, the house quiet except for the hum of the heater, when the doorbell rang.

No one ever comes by.

My first thought was that it was a mistake.

When I opened the door, the world seemed to tilt.

She stood there.

Cleaner. Straighter. Wrapped in a simple but neat coat. Her hair pulled back, her posture calm. And in her hands—she held a small gray case.

For a second, neither of us spoke.

“I hope you remember me,” she said softly.