The old woman had lowered her head again. Her shoulders shook violently.
“Ma’am,” Hannah said, kneeling beside her. “Can you stand?”
“I’m sorry,” the woman whispered. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
“You’re not causing trouble.”
“I can’t remember…”
“That’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”
Hannah slid one arm around the woman’s back and helped her up. The woman was lighter than Hannah expected, almost frighteningly fragile. She leaned heavily against Hannah, her body trembling.
The nearest public place still open was a gas station nearly a mile away. Too far.
Hannah’s apartment was six blocks in the other direction.
Not ideal.
But it had heat.
And soup.
And a couch.
“Come with me,” Hannah said gently. “My apartment is close.”
The woman looked at her with frightened eyes. “I don’t know you.”
“I know,” Hannah said. “But I promise I’m not going to hurt you. My name is Hannah.”
The woman repeated it faintly. “Hannah.”
“What’s your name?”
The woman’s brow creased. “Margaret,” she said after a long pause. “Margaret… I think.”
“Okay, Margaret. We’re going to get you warm.”
Step by step, they made their way out of the alley.
The walk to Hannah’s apartment usually took twelve minutes. That night, it took almost thirty.
Margaret moved slowly, one hand gripping Hannah’s arm, the other tucked against her chest. Twice, she stopped and looked around in panic, convinced they had gone the wrong way. Twice, Hannah reassured her.
Snow collected in Hannah’s hair and melted against her scalp. Her sneakers soaked through. Her fingers grew numb inside her cheap gloves.
But she kept moving.
Her apartment sat above a closed flower shop on Maple Avenue. It was small, with creaky stairs, thin walls, and one stubborn radiator that clanked like it was haunted. But when Hannah unlocked the door and guided Margaret inside, the warmth felt like mercy.
Sophie was asleep in the bedroom they shared, curled beneath two blankets with her laptop open beside her.
Hannah quietly helped Margaret sit on the couch.
“Stay here,” she whispered. “I’ll get you something warm.”
Margaret looked around the apartment. Her eyes drifted over the thrift-store coffee table, the chipped mugs, the stack of bills held down by a saltshaker, the little artificial Christmas tree Hannah still had not taken down because Sophie liked the lights.
“This is your home?” Margaret asked.
“Yes.”
“It’s lovely.”
Hannah almost laughed, but something about the old woman’s sincerity stopped her.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
She went to the kitchen and heated a pot of chicken noodle soup left over from the night before. While it warmed, she filled a mug with tea and honey, then found an old pair of wool socks in her drawer.
When she returned, Margaret was staring at her hands.
“I had gloves,” the woman whispered. “Blue ones.”
“We’ll find them later.”
“My son bought them.”
Hannah paused.
“You have a son?”
Margaret looked up slowly. “I do?”
The confusion in her face was so raw that Hannah felt her throat tighten.
“Maybe,” Hannah said carefully. “You mentioned one.”
Margaret’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t remember his face.”
Hannah sat beside her.