His first thought was trouble—an accident on the road, perhaps, or a power outage affecting the neighborhood. He shuffled toward the door, his joints stiff from the cold. Through the peephole, he spotted a small figure wrapped in a thick coat, hat pulled low over their ears. A child. His neighbor’s daughter.
He pulled the door open, bracing against the sharp gust of wind that rushed inside. The girl—Madeline, he recalled—stood on his porch, cheeks pink from the cold, her breath misting in the air. Her eyes were wide, and there was an urgency in her small voice when she spoke. “Mr. Rogers,” she said, barely louder than the wind. “There’s something in the snow. It’s moving.”