The heavy oak door groaned as if it hadn’t been opened in a lifetime. Eleanor Miller froze on the threshold, peering into the rain-slicked darkness. Standing on her porch was a young boy.
He was small, barely reaching her waist, and soaked to the bone. His jacket was expensive—North Face or something similar—but it was covered in burrs and mud. His knees were scraped, blood mixing with the rainwater. His face was streaked with tears, his lips blue from the mountain chill. He was shaking so violently Eleanor thought he might simply fall apart.
— “Please let me in!” the boy gasped, his teeth chattering. “I’m so cold!”
Eleanor gasped, grabbed him by the shoulders, and pulled him into the warm cabin. She kicked the door shut, cutting off the howling wind. The house smelled of dried herbs, woodsmoke, and the faint, comforting scent of vanilla—the remnants of a life she had tried to rebuild.
— “Good heavens, you’re freezing!” Eleanor said, quickly unzipping his wet boots and peeling off the soaked jacket. “Where on earth did you come from?”
Her hands, rough and calloused from years of mountain living, moved with practiced efficiency. She wrapped the boy in a heavy wool Hudson Bay blanket and sat him on the bench by the wood-burning stove. The fire crackled behind the iron door, casting orange light across the walls. Eleanor put the kettle on, tossing in a handful of dried raspberries and a spoonful of local honey. The steam began to rise, filling the room with a sweet, warm aroma.
The boy watched her with wide eyes, filled with exhaustion and a flickering hope that he wouldn’t be sent back out into the storm.
— “What’s your name, honey?” Eleanor asked, handing him a steaming mug of tea.
— “Paulie,” he whispered, clutching the mug with both hands.
He drank greedily, oblivious to the heat. Eleanor sat beside him, studying his face. He was six, maybe seven. He had the refined look of a child raised in a wealthy suburb, but his eyes… his eyes looked hollow, as if the light had been dimmed too early.
— “Where are you from, Paulie?” she asked gently, adjusting the blanket around his shoulders.
Paulie swallowed hard, looking down at his tea.
— “My dad and I were staying at the resort,” he said quietly, his voice trembling. “The Grand Pine Lodge. It’s about two miles back through the woods.”
Eleanor nodded. She knew the place. It was for the city folk—people with more money than sense who came up for the weekends to take photos of the trees.
— “And where is your dad?” she asked cautiously.
Paulie gripped the mug tighter, his knuckles turning white.
— “He was yelling,” the boy whispered. “He was on the phone yelling all night. Then I dropped my iPad, and he… he said I always ruin everything.”
The boy’s voice broke, and Eleanor saw a single tear roll down his cheek.
— “I got mad,” Paulie continued, sniffing. “I decided to hide in the woods so he’d get scared and look for me. But I got lost. I saw the light in your window and just kept walking.”
Eleanor silently took his hand. It was small, cold, and scraped. She squeezed it, and Paulie flinched slightly, as if he wasn’t used to the touch.
— “You’re nice,” he said suddenly, looking up at her. “My dad is just… angry all the time.”
Eleanor felt a sharp pang in her chest. She looked away, staring into the fire so he wouldn’t see her eyes welling up.
— “And your mom?” she asked softly. “Where is she?”
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