When a cranky old man slams the door on a persistent teenager, he assumes that’s the last he’ll see of her. But when a hurricane traps them together, the storm outside uncovers a shocking link to his past—and forces them both to face truths they’d rather avoid.

 

Frank had grown accustomed to living alone. The solitude suited him, and he’d long since come to terms with the absence of friends or family. So when a knock echoed through his quiet house on a Saturday morning, irritation flared more than curiosity.

 

With a heavy sigh, Frank heaved himself out of his recliner and shuffled to the door. Standing on the porch was a teenage girl, no older than sixteen, her eyes steady and determined.

Before she could utter a word, Frank snapped, “Not interested! I don’t want to buy anything, join a church, or save the environment. Whatever it is, the answer’s no.” With that, he slammed the door in her face.

 

He turned to leave but froze when the doorbell rang again. Gritting his teeth, Frank returned to his recliner, grabbed the remote, and turned up the TV to drown out the sound. The weather report flashed across the screen: a hurricane warning for the city.

 

“Doesn’t matter to me,” he muttered, unconcerned. His basement was fortified for anything.

But the ringing didn’t stop. Ten minutes turned into fifteen, the persistent sound gnawing at his patience. Finally, he stomped back to the door and flung it open.

 

“What do you want?” he barked, his voice echoing down the empty street.

The girl met his glare without flinching. “You’re Frank, right? I need to talk to you.”

Frank squinted at her. “Let’s say I am. Who are you? And where are your parents?”

 

“My name is Zoe,” she said evenly. “My mom died recently. I don’t have parents anymore.”

“Well, that’s not my problem,” Frank growled. He grabbed the door to close it, but Zoe pressed her hand against it.

“Don’t you want to know why I’m here?” she asked, her voice steady.

 

“The only thing I want is for you to leave my property!” he snapped, shoving her hand away and slamming the door so hard the frame rattled.

Silence followed. Frank peered through the curtains; she was gone. Satisfied, he muttered to himself and sank back into his chair.

 

The next morning, Frank’s mood soured further. Stepping outside to grab the paper, he froze. Smashed eggs dripped down his walls, and black paint scrawled crude insults across his house. Grinding his teeth, he spent the entire day scrubbing, cursing under his breath.

But that evening, as he sipped tea on his freshly cleaned porch, his relief was shattered. Garbage littered his yard—rotting food, torn papers, and cans strewn everywhere. Among the mess, a note taped to his mailbox read:

“Just listen to me, and I’ll stop bothering you. —Zoe.”

 

By morning, things escalated. Protesters camped on his lawn, waving signs about environmental issues. Frank chased them off with a broom, fuming. On his door was another note:

“Listen to me, or I’ll get more creative. —Zoe.
P.S. The paint doesn’t come off.”

 

Seething, Frank called the number scrawled at the bottom. When Zoe answered, he barked, “Get over here. Now.” Then he hung up.

When she arrived, two police officers stood beside Frank. “You think you’re clever? Let’s see how clever you are in cuffs!” he taunted. Zoe’s eyes burned with fury as the officers led her away.

 

The satisfaction was short-lived. The next day, hurricane winds battered the neighborhood. Preparing to retreat to his basement, Frank spotted Zoe outside, clutching her backpack against the howling storm.

“What are you doing?!” he yelled, throwing open the door.

“I have nowhere else to go!” she shouted back.

 

“Then come inside!” he barked.

“No way!” Zoe retorted. “I’d rather face the storm than be trapped with you!”

Fed up, Frank stomped into the wind, grabbed her backpack, and hauled her inside. “You stay out there, you’ll die!” he bellowed.

 

“Maybe I don’t care!” Zoe yelled, tears mixing with the rain. “I have nothing left anyway!”

Dragging her to the basement, Frank slammed the door against the storm. Inside, Zoe glared at him but dropped onto the couch in defeat.

 

“You wanted to talk. Talk,” Frank said, leaning against a shelf.

Zoe pulled out folded papers and handed them to him. “These are emancipation papers. I need your signature.”

Frank blinked. “Why me?”

 

“Because you’re my grandfather,” she said, her voice laced with anger. “Your wife? Your daughter? Remember them?”

Frank’s face paled. “That’s not possible.”

“It is,” Zoe snapped. “You abandoned them for your stupid dreams of painting. Grandma told me you were selfish, but even she didn’t capture how awful you are.”

 

Frank’s hands trembled. “I can’t sign this. You’re too young.”

“You’ve done nothing for anyone your whole life. You can’t even do this one thing to help me?” she shot back.

 

Silence stretched between them as the storm raged. Finally, Frank muttered, “Do you even have a plan?”

“I’m working on it,” Zoe said. “I have a job. I can manage.”

“You’re sixteen. You should be in school,” Frank said quietly.

 

“Life doesn’t care about what we should do,” Zoe replied.

Hours passed in tense silence. Watching Zoe sketch in her notebook, Frank couldn’t deny her talent. Her bold, creative strokes reminded him of his younger self—but better.

 

When the storm cleared, Frank handed her the signed papers. “You were right,” he said gruffly. “I was a terrible husband and father. But maybe I can help someone now.”

Zoe stuffed the papers into her bag. “Thanks,” she said softly.

Before she could leave, Frank hesitated. “You can stay here,” he offered. “I can’t fix the past, but I won’t let you face this alone.”

 

Zoe smirked. “Fine. But I’m taking your art supplies. I’m way better than you.”

Frank shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Stubborn. You get that from me.”