The Boy at the Door
That winter morning arrived with a brutal cold, the kind that slipped through coats and settled deep in the bones, when Margaret heard a knock far earlier than any customer would arrive. It was sharp, uncertain, carrying a hesitation that made her pause before unlocking the door.
When she opened it, a teenage boy stood there without gloves, without confidence. His eyes looked older than his face. He wore a jacket that wasn’t his, his posture shaped by the expectation of rejection.
“I’m not here to cause trouble,” he said, his voice uneven but steady enough to try. “I just haven’t eaten in a while.”
Margaret didn’t ask his name. Names could wait. Instead, she stepped aside and let warmth speak first.
