A terminally ill millionaire woman wandered through a winter park, and upon seeing a freezing man with a child on a bench, she took them home…

And David, not knowing why, suddenly remembered watching his mother leave for work in childhood, in a black coat and polished boots. He thought then that women who walk confidently can do everything. Even stop time.

The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was dense, saturated. Each thought of their own.

Emily suddenly recalled her first apartment. A small one, in an old building, with peeling walls and the smell of boiled cabbage in the hallway. There was nothing there but an old sofa, a table, and a view of a brick wall.

But it was there she first felt she was living alone. That no one would come and save her. She herself, period.

The parking lot near her house was empty. She called the housekeeper, told her to prepare the guest room, put out blankets, turn on the heater. Didn’t ask why.

Just do it. Usually, Mrs. Harris asked clarifying questions, but now she silently agreed over the phone. The mistress’s voice sounded different.

Emily led David and Ethan into the warm space. The spacious hall greeted them with the aroma of cinnamon and vanilla, smelling of baking. Ethan lifted his head, sniffed, and something in his face twitched—hope, almost forgotten.

David looked around, as if fearing a trap. You can stay here, said Emily, trying to speak matter-of-factly so as not to scare them off. For a while.

Until we figure out what next. Are you hungry? No answer followed. She already knew they weren’t just hungry; they had been starving for a long time.

And it was no longer physiology, but a state of the soul. Hunger for warmth, protection, for someone to just say: I’m here. Go to the kitchen, she added.

There’s food. Shower. Clean towels.

David stood as if pressed against the wall, unbelieving. Why are you doing this? She looked at him. Deeply, attentively.

And said almost in a whisper: Because today I also learned that I have no afterward. David pressed his lips.

He didn’t know what to say. Next to him stood Ethan, pressed against him, looking at Emily the way children look at a kind fairy. Without delight.

With hope. They followed her. The kitchen was huge, bright, with a long table where bowls of soup, bread, tea already stood.

Mrs. Harris, seeing the man and child, assessed everything with one glance, the kind that replaces a medical chart. She said nothing, just nodded. Ethan stood at first, unbelieving.

Then David whispered: Eat. And the boy carefully, slowly, began to eat.

Without greed, neatly, as if afraid he’d be punished for it. Mrs. Harris watched him out of the corner of her eye, her eyes moistening. Hot shower through that door, she said quietly to David.

You should warm up. I’ll find some clothes. My husband left some things before.

David nodded. His movements were slow, like a person for whom exhaustion had become habitual. He went to the bathroom, and Ethan stayed in the kitchen. Emily crouched down next to him.

How do you feel? Warm, the boy answered, not taking his eyes off the plate. It smells here like in the cartoon about winter.

About winter? Where the wolf found a home, and they gave him porridge, he explained importantly.

She nodded. And felt something in her chest loosen. As if a room inside had finally let in light.

When David returned, dressed in clean, slightly oversized but warm clothes, he looked younger. His hair still damp, confusion on his face. As if his body had warmed, but his soul hadn’t yet.

You need a room. The heater’s already on. Come on.

She led them upstairs. The guest bedroom turned out unexpectedly cozy. There was a big bed, two armchairs, a blanket, and a nightlight with soft light.

Emily placed a basket with dry things by the door, silently left, and closed it behind her. Going downstairs, she poured herself tea and looked out the window. The snow didn’t stop.

The windowsill glass fogged up. She ran her finger over it and, without thinking, wrote «Not the end yet.» The night was quiet.

No wind, no sounds from the street, as if the city itself froze, trying not to disturb someone’s fragile peace. In the guest bedroom, under the soft light of the nightlight, Ethan, curled up, was already asleep. His cheeks pinkened, breathing calm, even.

He lay on his right side, hugging the pillow like a teddy bear he never had. David couldn’t sleep. He sat in the armchair by the window, looking at the snowy yard.

He felt something returning that had long disappeared—warmth. Not physical, not from the heater, but some internal, elusive one. But behind this feeling hid anxiety: it couldn’t be just like that.

Without conditions. Without consequences. He remembered helping his mother sell pies at the subway in his youth.

How he carried boxes, secretly hid money in his belt to buy himself an old MP3 player later. How he dreamed of becoming an actor, then a literature teacher. And became no one.

A contractor without steady income, a father without stability, a person whose friends all crossed him out as soon as he started needing. And now he sat in an armchair in a house that resembled a five-star hotel, hearing his son’s quiet breathing, sleeping in silence. It was too much.

Too good to last. At dawn, he dozed off in half-sleep, not from fatigue, but from exhaustion. He woke to the smell of coffee.

At first, he thought it was a dream again. But the smell grew clearer. Then the creak of the door and Mrs. Harris’s voice.

Breakfast on the table. The child still sleeping? Her voice was strict, but there was something homey in it, almost caring. Yes, David stretched.

Thank you. Not to me, she cut off. To Emily Johnson.

Her decision. I’m just the executor. He nodded, not knowing what to answer.

After washing, changing into the same clothes, he gently woke Ethan. The boy opened his eyes, rubbed them with his fists, and smiled, a bit embarrassed, like children smile when they realize they don’t have to return to the nightmare yet. The kitchen table was set like in a cafe.

Oatmeal with jam, fresh rolls, tea, apples. David looked around embarrassed, wanted to say something, but couldn’t. Ethan was already sitting, looking at the food with that expression that stays with you for life: a mix of hunger, gratitude, and cautious faith.

Can I? he whispered. Of course you can, said David. Wash your hands first…