Chapter 175

Prologue-

For months, Andrea watched the homeless man across the street—torn clothes, matted hair, and barely surviving under cardboard boxes and a worn trampoline sheet. But when the harshest winter storm Montera Springs had ever seen rolled in, it brought with it a danger neither of them could endure alone.

Seven months pregnant and with barely any money to her name, Andrea’s world shifted when her doctor warned that bed rest was the only way to save her baby. Alone, with no help and no options, Andrea found herself unable to ignore the man outside. Thin as a whisper, frail as the wind, he wouldn’t survive the night.

In desperation, she offered him shelter. She couldn’t pay him, but she could give him a warm place to stay, food from what little she had, and a chance to heal. In return, he could help her through the final months of her pregnancy.

Slowly, a fragile bond formed between them—two lost souls finding solace in each other’s presence. As days passed, she learned he had no memory of who he was or where he came from. Yet, in his quiet eyes, Andrea felt an unsettling familiarity.

A connection to her past that she had vowed to leave long behind.

CHAPTER 1

It was the coldest day of the year.

The thermometer outside Andrea’s window read -30 degrees Fahrenheit, but it felt even colder. The relentless snowfall blanketed Montera Springs in a thick, unforgiving layer of ice, each flake adding to the foot-deep drifts that had already swallowed the streets. Andrea stood by the window of her tiny home, her fingers gently cradling her swollen belly, seven months along. She could hear the wind howling through the narrow alleys and rattling the old windowpanes, but inside, the soft hum of a space heater offered a fragile sanctuary from the bitter storm.

Her worries, however, were not for herself.

She barely had enough for herself, and soon, when the baby arrived, things would become even more difficult. Her one-bedroom flat was modest, with second hand furniture and worn blankets, but it was warm. It Would do.

Andrea’s gaze was fixed across the street, where a lone figure huddled on a worn wooden bench, half-buried in snow. The homeless man sat with his knees drawn tightly to his chest, his thin frame trembling beneath a long black coat that had clearly seen better days. The seams on the shoulders were torn, and the fabric hung loosely, barely shielding him from the brutal wind. Every few moments, he shook the makeshift shelter he had constructed—a patchwork of trampoline sheets, cardboard boxes, and sticks—desperate to prevent the accumulating snow from collapsing it completely.

His face was nearly lost beneath a tangled mass of matted hair and an overgrown beard, which might have once been brown but was now a grimy tangle of darkened strands. His eyes, hollow and tired, barely peeked through the overgrowth, revealing a weariness that went far beyond the cold. A dirty white beanie, now stained and weathered to a dull brown, clung to his head, offering the barest hint of warmth. His thin hands, cracked and red from the cold, gripped the edges of his coat, pulling it tightly around his emaciated frame.

You could barely see anything of him except his height—a lanky six-foot figure that struggled to fold itself into the cramped space of the bench. His most striking feature was his eyes, a vivid blue like the clearest sky after a storm, standing out starkly against the unkempt tangle of hair and the thick, matted beard that hid the rest of his face.

For nearly two months, the homeless man had made that bench his home. He spoke to no one, never asked for help, never begged. Day after day, he simply sat or slept beneath a makeshift shelter cobbled together from discarded trampoline sheets, sticks, and bits of cardboard. Andrea often found herself wondering, with a pang of guilt, if beneath that tattered black coat he was nothing but skin stretched over fragile bones.

Their interactions had been fleeting at best—occasional moments when Andrea left small portions of her leftovers near his bench, hoping he’d find them. Yet, in all this time, they had never exchanged a single word.

Winter was cruel, its icy grip merciless to those with no place to call home. Andrea didn’t know how he had ended up there or what painful twists of fate had brought him to such despair, but her heart ached for him. The thought of him spending nights in the bitter cold, with nothing but a thin sheet to keep the snow at bay, gnawed at her.

Maybe she could do more.

It wouldn’t take much—just a little extra rice, a bit more soup each day. It wouldn’t cost her much, but it might mean survival for him.

With Christmas approaching, Andrea thought perhaps this could be her one good deed. A small gesture that might make a world of difference. A faint smile touched her lips as she rose from her chair and headed to the kitchen to prepare her lunch.

Bundled in three layers of wool and a worn overcoat, Andrea still felt the bitter chill seep into her bones as she carefully navigated through the knee-deep snow, clutching a steaming bowl of rice and hotdog curry. Each step was a challenge, her seven-months-pregnant belly making the journey even more arduous.

“Sir,” she called softly as she reached the bench, her breath visible in the icy air. “I made a little extra today by accident… would you like some?”

The moment the bowl reached his trembling hands, he began devouring the food with a desperation that nearly broke her heart. His striking blue eyes barely glanced at her, too focused on the meal as he shoveled spoonful after spoonful into his mouth. Andrea silently counted the minutes on one hand—it took him less than that to finish.

When he finally looked up, Andrea saw him clearly for the first time. The hollowness in his cheeks, the sharp angles of his bones jutting out from beneath the threadbare layers of clothing. His coat, ripped at the seams, barely shielded him from the bitter cold. She swallowed the lump in her throat as he wordlessly handed the empty bowl back to her.

It was his eyes, though—filled with such quiet vulnerability—that pierced her soul. No one deserved this.

Before she could stop herself, the words spilled out. “You can keep the bowl,” she said softly, offering a small, hopeful smile. “When I bring your dinner tonight, you’ll need it again.”

She hadn’t known what kind of response to expect. Gratefulness? Relief? But what she hadn’t anticipated was the raw disbelief in his empty blue eyes as he stared at her like she had lost her mind.

“Dinner?”

His voice was rough, edged with hoarseness, as if unused for far too long. Yet it was the quiet vulnerability laced within that single word—the sheer disbelief that someone would care enough to feed him again—that unravelled Andrea completely, breaking her heart into pieces she hadn’t known existed.

“How does spaghetti and marinara sauce sound?” Andrea asked, forcing a bright tone even as her heart ached. What has this man been through? she wondered.

He didn’t reply, only stared at her in disbelief. “Just keep the plate clean, okay?” she added softly, blinking back tears and blaming her pregnancy hormones for the lump in her throat. But deep down, she knew it wasn’t just that. The sheer thought of countless homeless souls suffering through harsh winters made her chest tighten painfully.

She turned to leave, whispering a silent curse under her breath, when his voice, rough and hoarse from disuse, stopped her. “Miss... the spoon.”

Andrea turned, finding him holding out the spoon. “You said I could keep the bowl,” he reminded her quietly.

A laugh bubbled out of her unexpectedly, raw and tender. He looked so lost, his striking blue eyes wide with confusion, like a child not understanding what was funny. “The spoon too,” she chuckled softly. “You’ll need it for dinner.”

Later that afternoon, Andrea noticed him through the window. Every few moments, he glanced toward her home, anticipation flickering in his weary eyes. When she stepped outside to take out the trash, he shot up from the bench, holding the bowl and spoon, now spotless, like a child waiting for approval.

Dear God, how hungry is he? Andrea’s heart clenched painfully.

His face fell when he realized she wasn’t bringing food. Without hesitation, she rushed inside and started dinner early. She filled his bowl with steaming spaghetti, rich marinara, and tender meatballs, handing him a fork along with it. “Good night,” she whispered, unable to watch as he devoured the meal.

She couldn’t bear it—seeing him like that broke her.

Christmas was a week away. The town shimmered with fairy lights, lawns adorned with glowing reindeer, and gift shops bustling late into the night. People bought presents for their loved ones.

But Andrea had no one. No family. No friends. Only the little life growing inside her. Every penny she earned at Johnson’s Feed & Supply went toward surviving and preparing for her baby’s arrival.

Yet, as she watched the man outside her window, frail and forgotten, Andrea whispered a prayer—not for herself, but for him. For a miracle. For happiness to find him this Christmas.