Snow was falling slowly, as if there were all the time in the world. Arthur Whitmore shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets and quickened his pace. The cold bit his face, and he could already picture the kettle on his stove, steam rising through an empty kitchen.

The second day brought a fragile sense of domestic routine. Arthur discovered that Nell was fiercely protective, a natural-born leader who organized their small play area with meticulous care, while Nora was artistic, spending hours drawing intricate patterns with crayons Arthur had picked up during his shopping trip.

They still spoke very little about their past, and Arthur knew better than to push. Trauma had a voice of its own, and it often spoke in whispers and silences. He focused on filling their days with warmth, hot cocoa, and simple meals.

By the afternoon of the second day, the snow outside had begun to melt, turning the edges of the streets into slush. Arthur was in the kitchen chopping vegetables for a vegetable stew when a sudden, sharp knock echoed from the front door.

It wasn't a normal knock. It was heavy, deliberate, and authoritative.

In the living room, the atmosphere changed instantly. The laughter died. Nell froze mid-sentence, her crayons clattering to the floor. Nora grabbed the hem of Nell’s sweater, her eyes wide with sheer terror.

"Arthur," Nell whispered, her voice trembling. "They found us."

Arthur dropped his knife. A cold spike of adrenaline shot through his veins. "Who found you, Nell?" he asked, walking quickly into the living room and kneeling before them.

"Bad men," Nora whimpered, burying her face in Nell’s shoulder. "The ones who took us from the big house."

Before Arthur could ask another question, the knock came again—louder this time.

"Open the door, Professor Whitmore," a deep, controlled voice called from outside. It was a voice that belonged to a man accustomed to being obeyed instantly.

Arthur stood up, his jaw set. He glanced back at the two girls, who were now huddled behind the sofa, trembling like autumn leaves in a hurricane. A protective fury flared up inside Arthur. He was a retired professor, yes, but these were his children now—even if by adoption of the heart spanning just two days.

He walked to the front door and pulled it open.

Standing on his porch was a tall, imposing man in his late fifties, dressed in an impeccably tailored charcoal overcoat. His silver-streaked hair was combed back with military precision, and his cold, grey eyes scanned Arthur up and down with clinical detachment. Behind him stood two burly men in black suits, their hands clasped neatly behind their backs.

"Can I help you?" Arthur asked, his voice steady, blocking the doorway with his body.

The man in the overcoat offered a thin, humorless smile. "Good afternoon, Professor. I am Marcus Vance. I believe you have something of mine inside your house."

Arthur’s heart pounded, but his face remained a mask of calm scholarly resolve. "I don't know any Marcus Vance, and I certainly don't have anything belonging to you."

Marcus sighed softly, stepping slightly closer. The scent of expensive cologne and ozone drifted off him. "Let's not play games, Arthur. I've tracked the digital footprint of the security alerts in this district. Two little girls—identical twins, five years old. They went missing from my estate three nights ago during a localized blackout. Hand them over quietly, and we won't involve the authorities or make this difficult for a retired academic with a heart condition."

Arthur felt the blood drain from his face. They knew about his heart condition. They had investigated him.

"They were left in a cardboard box in the freezing snow to die," Arthur shot back, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low register. "If they belong to your estate, your estate is a prison or a graveyard. You're not taking them."

Marcus’s smile vanished, replaced by a mask of cold menace. "You don't understand what you're meddling in, Professor. Those girls aren't just children. They are the sole heirs to the Vance Corporation holdings, and certain people... well, let's just say accidents happen to little girls who wander off in snowstorms."

Arthur stood his ground, blocking the entrance completely. "Over my dead body."

Marcus narrowed his eyes, studying Arthur’s unyielding posture. Slowly, a calculated look crossed the businessman's face. He knew forcing his way in would cause a scene that might draw unwanted local attention.

"Very well, Arthur," Marcus said smoothly, stepping back off the porch. "Keep them for now. Enjoy your little domestic fantasy. But remember—you cannot protect them forever. I own this city, and by tomorrow, legal orders will strip you of everything you hold dear."

Marcus turned and walked down the steps toward a sleek, black limousine idling at the curb. The car glided away silently into the evening mist, leaving Arthur standing on the porch with his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists.

He closed the door and locked it three times. When he turned around, Nell and Nora were standing at the end of the hallway, looking at him with expressions that broke his heart.

"Are we going back?" Nell asked quietly.