Snow had a way of making New York feel like a different planet.

It didn’t erase the city so much as soften it, muffling the usual roar into something hushed and breathless. Streetlights floated in pale halos. Traffic became a distant rumor. Even the buildings, those steel-and-glass giants, seemed to lean back and listen to the quiet.

Past midnight, the streets near the hospital stood almost empty, the final bus long gone, its red tail lights swallowed by the storm like a match struck and snuffed.

Sandra Grace sat hunched on the frozen bench beneath the bus shelter’s narrow canopy. A thin gray coat tried to do the job of a winter jacket and failed. The hem of her nurse’s uniform peeked out like a confession. Damp blonde strands clung to her cheeks. Her bare hands were shoved deep into her sleeves, knuckles red and angry from the cold.

A cough broke out of her, sharp against the stillness.

She stayed motionless, eyes fixed on the ground as if refusing to move could hold off the night itself.

The staff lounge had been locked early. The cot she sometimes managed to claim was out of reach. She could have asked for help, but she was too tired, too proud, too practiced at disappearing. Sandra had learned a long time ago that the world noticed you more when you asked for things, and she had spent years surviving by being unnoticeable.

Just make it until morning, she told herself. Once I’m back inside, no one will even know I left.

The wind slipped through the shelter like it owned the place, scattering snow across her lap. Sandra swallowed another cough and glanced down the road, searching for headlights.

Nothing.

Only the slow drift of flakes, the occasional gust, the sound of her own breathing.

Then, soft and deliberate, the crunch of tires over ice.

A sleek black SUV eased to the curb, its headlights washing over Sandra and cutting through the storm. The sudden brightness felt like being caught in a spotlight. She blinked, squinting, bracing for trouble the way people in her position always did.

In the back seat, a little girl pressed her mittened hands to the glass, breath fogging the window. She had wide brown eyes that didn’t flinch from what they saw. Her gaze locked on Sandra with open certainty, the way children looked at the world before they learned to pretend they didn’t notice pain.

The girl tugged gently on the sleeve of the man sitting beside her.

“Daddy,” she said, voice small but sure, “that lady is cold. She looks like she needs help.”

Nathaniel Carter followed his daughter’s gaze.

He hadn’t planned to stop. His nights were built on schedules and shields. He was the kind of man who moved through the city as if the city moved out of his way. CEO. Millionaire. The name Carter carried weight in boardrooms and headlines.

But the figure on the bench yanked at something he’d tried to bury.

Two years ago, he had stood in a storm like this outside an ER entrance, waiting for the news that would break him. That night had rearranged his life into before and after, and ever since, he’d kept moving because stopping felt too much like falling.

He couldn’t keep driving now.

The SUV rolled to a halt.

Nathaniel stepped out into the snow, retrieving a dark cashmere scarf from the back seat. It was folded with care, kept like a relic. One of the few things that still smelled like lavender and memory.

He crossed the sidewalk with steady steps and draped the scarf over Sandra’s shoulders without a word.

Sandra flinched, startled by the softness, by the warmth, by the fact that anyone had come close enough to notice her shaking.

Her hands rose and clutched the fabric, fingers sinking into cashmere. The lavender scent hit her like a ghost of someone else’s life.

“At least keep warm,” Nathaniel said quietly.

Sandra looked up, her expression guarded, unreadable. Her eyes were pale, exhausted, the kind of eyes that had seen too many endings under fluorescent hospital lights.

“Let me give you a ride,” he added. “You can’t sit out here all night.”

Sandra hesitated. She’d weathered worse nights alone. She’d learned to treat offers like traps until proven otherwise.

But another cough seized her chest, violent enough to bend her forward. When it passed, she saw the little girl watching her from the back seat, eyes wide and worried, like she’d already decided Sandra mattered.

That decided it.

Sandra rose slowly, legs stiff with cold, and followed Nathaniel to the SUV.

Inside, the heat stung her frozen skin. The little girl offered a shy smile, clutching a teddy bear that looked loved down to its last thread.

“Hi,” the girl whispered.

“Hi,” Sandra replied, and her voice surprised her by softening.

For a few minutes, the only sounds were the hum of the engine and the steady sweep of the windshield wipers. Snow thickened, pushing against the windows, trying to press the city into silence.

Sandra noticed the girl still watching her in the rearview mirror. Without thinking, she reached back and smoothed a curl away from the child’s face. The girl didn’t pull away. Instead she lifted her wrist and slid off a pink scrunchie, holding it out like a peace offering.

Sandra took it, gathered the loose curls, and tied them into a neat ponytail.

Nathaniel saw it happen in the mirror.

His throat tightened.

Betty Carter hadn’t let anyone touch her hair since her mother died. Not the nanny. Not her grandmother. Not even Nathaniel. She’d flinched and recoiled as if touch meant loss.

But she sat still for this stranger on a snowy night.

Nathaniel cleared his throat. “I was going to take you to a hotel nearby,” he began.

Then he glanced sideways, meeting Sandra’s eyes. “You said you don’t have a home.”

Sandra’s grip tightened on the scarf. She didn’t confirm it. She didn’t deny it. The truth was too heavy and too familiar to say out loud.

Nathaniel hesitated, as though tasting the weight of his next words.

“You need a home,” he said.

Sandra’s heart stuttered.

“And I need a mother for my daughter.”

Silence filled the SUV like something physical, thick and dangerous. Sandra searched his face for mockery, for pity, for manipulation.

But Nathaniel’s expression held only quiet sincerity… and something else beneath it.

Fear.

Not fear of her.

Fear of hoping.

Before Sandra could speak, Betty leaned forward, hugging her teddy bear tight. “Please stay,” she whispered. “Just for my bedtime story.”

Sandra looked from the little girl to the man beside her. Outside, snow pressed against the windows. Inside, warmth wrapped around her like something she hadn’t earned but desperately needed.

She pulled the scarf closer. “Okay,” she murmured. “Just for tonight.”

The SUV rolled into a driveway lined with snow-laden shrubs. The house stood tall and modern, all stone and clean lines, its windows glowing faintly like distant stars. But the glow didn’t feel warm. It felt… careful.

Sandra stepped inside hesitantly, boots leaving a trail of melting snow on polished hardwood. Her eyes moved through the vast entryway, taking in the stillness.

No family portraits on the walls. No children’s drawings. No scattered toys or crumpled blankets. Just space and quiet and the echo of footsteps on expensive wood.

“This place feels too quiet,” Sandra said softly, almost to herself.

Nathaniel’s voice came from behind her. “It has been,” he said, “since she passed.”

Sandra didn’t ask who. She didn’t need to. Grief lived in the corners like dust.

Betty slipped her small hand into Sandra’s, tugging gently. “Come,” she said. “I’ll show you my room.”

Sandra let herself be led down the hallway. Betty pushed open a white door and proudly pointed inside.

Unlike the rest of the house, Betty’s room felt alive. Pale pinks and soft grays. A single lamp glowed near the bed, casting golden light across stuffed animals and bookshelves. It looked like someone had tried, at least here, to keep warmth from dying.

Betty picked up a book. “I like this one,” she whispered. “It’s about a fox who gets lost in the snow.”

Sandra knelt beside her. “That sounds like a good one.”

She helped Betty change into pajamas, brushing her hair with the small pink brush on the dresser. Betty didn’t flinch. She didn’t pull away. She simply leaned into the motion like she’d been waiting for it.

Sandra sat on the edge of the bed and began to read, her voice soft and rhythmic. The story of the lost fox became a lullaby. Betty’s head slowly drifted onto Sandra’s lap. Her breathing evened out.

From the hallway, Nathaniel watched, unseen, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, as if holding himself together. The sight hit him like a quiet punch: his daughter asleep, calm, curled beside a woman who didn’t try too hard. Who didn’t perform motherhood like a job interview. Who simply showed up.

When Betty fell fully asleep, Sandra shifted her gently onto the pillow and tucked the blanket up to her chin.

Nathaniel stepped back before she could notice him.

Upstairs, the guest room was small but clean, lit by a gentle glow and the hum of an electric fireplace. A thick quilt lay neatly over the bed. On the side table, a mug of cocoa steamed beside a folded note in neat block handwriting.

Thank you for staying, even for just tonight.

Sandra stood for a long moment staring at the note, then sat in the armchair and wrapped her hands around the mug.

The cocoa was rich, real. Not powdered mix from a hospital lounge. The sweetness warmed her from the inside out. She curled her legs under herself, holding the mug close as the fire flickered.

For the first time in what felt like years, she let herself breathe.

She didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. She had no promises. No guarantees.

But tonight, someone had made room for her.

And that little felt like everything.

The next few days passed softly, like snow settling: gentle, quiet, and somehow changing the shape of everything.

Sandra woke before sunrise, moving through the house like a careful shadow. She made coffee, scrambled eggs, set out fruit and cereal for Betty. She placed a folded napkin beside Nathaniel’s mug, always with a small handwritten note.

Good luck today.
Or at least less chaos than yesterday.

On the second morning, Nathaniel woke to the smell of breakfast before his alarm. He came downstairs and paused in the doorway.

The kitchen was full of life.

Betty sat at the counter, legs swinging beneath her stool, hair tied neatly. Sandra knelt in front of her, guiding small fingers through the loops of shoelaces.

“Pull tight here,” Sandra said gently. “Then make bunny ears.”

Betty giggled when she got it wrong, then beamed when she got it right.

Nathaniel didn’t speak. He just watched, and something in him shifted like ice cracking in the spring.

That evening, Sandra made dinner. Rosemary chicken, roasted vegetables, mashed potatoes so creamy Betty licked the spoon clean. Afterward, Sandra and Betty stood side by side in the kitchen, elbows deep in flour, rolling cookie dough into uneven shapes while the radio played softly.

Betty laughed, really laughed, when Sandra dropped a spoon and flour puffed into the air around them like a tiny blizzard.

Nathaniel stood just outside the doorway, unseen.

The sound hit his chest in a way money never had. It wasn’t loud, but it echoed in a heart long after it stopped.

Later, after Betty was tucked into bed, Nathaniel lingered in the hallway. His voice was low, almost hoarse.

“She hasn’t laughed like that in two years.”

Sandra turned slowly. “She’s an amazing little girl.”

“She was three when my wife died,” he said, eyes fixed on the nightlight glowing in Betty’s room. “She was on call that night. A doctor. She stopped at a car accident on her way home. Saved a man trapped inside…”

His voice broke. “But she didn’t make it.”

Sandra didn’t rush to fill the silence. She understood that grief wasn’t a problem to solve. It was weather you learned to live under.

“My mom was a nurse,” Sandra said quietly. “She had cancer. I left med school to care for her.” Her eyes lowered to her hands. “She used to say… even when you’re hurting, if you can help someone else breathe easier, that’s a good day.”

Nathaniel looked at her then, really seeing her. Not just the nurse. Not just the temporary warmth in his cold house.

A person who had carried pain and kept walking anyway.

He nodded once.

Neither of them said another word.

The next night, Sandra came downstairs to find the dining room transformed. Candles flickered on the table. A soft jazz melody drifted from the radio. Two wine glasses waited.

Nathaniel stepped in holding a plate of cheese and crackers like he wasn’t sure how to offer tenderness without dropping it.

“I thought,” he said, almost apologetically, “you might want a moment just for you.”

Sandra looked at the table, then back at him. The gesture wasn’t grand. It wasn’t flashy. It was careful. Like he was testing whether joy was still allowed in this house.

“Thank you,” she said, and meant it.

For that night, at least, there was no past. No ghosts. Just warmth and the flicker of something fragile… something like peace.

Then, well past midnight, the house changed its breathing.

Sandra jolted awake, heart thudding, unsure why until she heard it.

A soft whimper through the walls.

A child’s cry.

She threw on her robe and moved quickly down the hallway. Betty’s door was cracked open. The nightlight painted the room in pale gold.

Betty sat upright in bed, tears streaking down her cheeks, clutching her teddy bear like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.

Sandra crossed the room in two steps and sat beside her. “Hey, hey, sweetheart,” she whispered, pulling the trembling girl into her arms. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

Betty buried her face in Sandra’s chest, body shaking. Her voice was barely a whisper.

“Don’t go. Mommy… please don’t go.”

Sandra’s breath caught. The word hit her with unexpected heat and heartbreak. She held Betty tighter, rocking gently, fingers running through curls.

“I’m right here,” she murmured. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re safe.”

Neither of them saw Nathaniel standing in the doorway, frozen as if the house had turned to stone around him.

Mommy.

The word wasn’t a weapon, but it cut anyway.

Not because it insulted his wife’s memory, but because it reminded him how badly he wanted his daughter to be okay. How much he wanted this warmth to stay. And how terrified he was of losing it.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t move.

He turned away and disappeared down the hall, jaw clenched, eyes hollow.

The next morning, the kitchen was silent.

Sandra made breakfast anyway. Betty came down rubbing her eyes. Sandra poured cereal, tied shoes, read a silly story while Betty ate.

But Nathaniel didn’t join them. Not that day. Not the next. When Sandra passed him in the hallway, he offered curt nods. Polite. Distant. Like he’d pulled a curtain between them.

No more candles. No more jazz.

The warmth in the space between Sandra and Nathaniel vanished, replaced by something Sandra recognized too well.

Distance.

At first, she thought she’d done something wrong. But deep down she knew.

He heard her. Heard Betty call her mommy. And that word, the one that had warmed Sandra’s chest, had cracked open something Nathaniel wasn’t ready to face.

One evening, Sandra wandered down a hallway she hadn’t explored, searching for the linen closet. She found a door slightly ajar. Curiosity tugged, but it was grief that pushed.

She opened it gently.

The room was untouched.

A bookshelf lined one wall, filled with medical journals and novels. Reading glasses rested on a desk beside a half-used notepad. The bed was neatly made, comforter tucked tight.

A framed photo sat on the nightstand: Nathaniel’s wife, young, dark-haired, with eyes that smiled even through glass.

The air smelled faintly of lavender and dust.

Time had paused in this room, unwilling to move forward.

“You found it.”

Sandra turned. Nathaniel stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame.

“I haven’t changed anything,” he said, voice low. “She was everything.”

“She must have been wonderful,” Sandra whispered.

“She was,” he said, eyes distant. “Brilliant. Kind. Stubborn as hell.” A small, painful smile flickered. “She would’ve hated this house. The silence. The cold. She liked noisy mornings and bright rugs and dancing while she cooked.”

His voice dropped. “And now I can’t even take down her photo.”

“You don’t have to,” Sandra said.

Then she glanced toward the hallway where Betty slept, and her voice softened even more. “But Betty still needs someone now. So do you.”

Nathaniel’s breath shuddered, almost invisible. “I’m scared,” he admitted.

Sandra nodded. “Me too.”

She left the door open when she walked out.

And somehow, that made all the difference.

After that night, the days became tentative but warmer. Nathaniel’s walls didn’t fall completely, but cracks let light through. He didn’t avoid Sandra’s eyes. He lingered a little longer in the kitchen. Betty seemed lighter, as though she could feel the truce.

Then came a Saturday in Central Park, winter sunlight spilling over snow-dusted paths. The three of them walked together, Betty swinging between them, giggling.

It was small, ordinary… and dangerous.

They didn’t notice the man with a camera until it was too late.

Two hours later, the photo appeared online.

Billionaire CEO Nathaniel Carter Strolls Central Park with Mystery Nurse. Blizzard Romance in Full Swing.

By nightfall it was everywhere.

The tabloids fed like wolves.

Cinderella 2025.
From night shift to penthouse.
Is this love… or a scheme?

Nathaniel ignored the gossip in his office. He had enough money and power to outlast headlines. But Sandra didn’t have armor like that.

At the hospital, whispers followed her down hallways. A fellow nurse cornered her in the break room.

“They’re talking about you everywhere,” she said quietly. “And Nathaniel hasn’t said anything to the press.”

Sandra forced a smile. “No.”

The nurse hesitated. “I thought he would… defend you.”

Sandra went back to her charts, but a knot tightened in her chest.

A week later, Nathaniel insisted Sandra and Betty attend the company’s annual Christmas gala.

“It will be good for everyone to see you,” he said, like visibility would make truth obvious.

Sandra wore a simple navy dress, modest but elegant. Betty wore a white dress with a red ribbon, twirling in delight.

The moment they entered the ballroom, conversations faltered. Heads turned. Eyes lingered like cold fingers.

Sandra kept her chin high. She held Betty’s hand and moved forward.

Halfway across the room, she heard a woman’s low voice nearby. A senior executive, speaking like she was discussing quarterly earnings instead of a human being.

“She doesn’t have a family name. No credentials worth noting. I suppose making a child call you mommy is one way to secure your place.”

The words struck like ice.

Sandra’s grip tightened on Betty’s hand. She turned toward Nathaniel, searching for acknowledgment, for defense, for a single sign that he heard.

But Nathaniel turned away. He began speaking with a potential investor, posture smooth and polished, exactly as if he’d heard nothing at all.

The air around Sandra thinned.

It wasn’t the gossip that hurt most.

It was the silence.

The man who once told her she needed a home and he needed her… couldn’t even say, She’s not what you think.

Sandra didn’t cry. She didn’t cause a scene.

She bent toward Betty, voice calm. “Shall we go home, sweetie?”

Betty nodded, tired and confused.

That night, Sandra packed quietly. Her uniform folded neatly. Her belongings fit into the worn bag she’d brought the first night.

On Nathaniel’s desk, she left the cashmere scarf.

Beside it, a letter.

Nathaniel,
Thank you for letting me spend a few days feeling like a mother… like someone who mattered.
I don’t need protection. But tonight I realized maybe I never truly had a place in this life you built.
Please tell Betty I love her as though she were part of me.
Sandra.

Nathaniel returned after midnight, tie loose, exhaustion clinging to him. The house felt off. Colder. Too quiet.

He noticed the empty coat rack.

Then he saw the scarf.

He read the letter once. Then again.

The paper crumpled slightly in his grip.

Upstairs, Betty’s door was half open. She was curled under her blankets but awake, face buried in her pillow, muffling sobs.

When she saw him, she sat up, eyes wet. “She left because of me?” she whispered. “Because people don’t like her.”

Nathaniel sat on the bed and pulled her into his arms. His own eyes stung.

“No, sweetheart,” he whispered. “She left because I didn’t protect her.”

His throat tightened around the truth he’d avoided. Not because he believed them… but because he was afraid.

Afraid he already loved Sandra too much.

Snow began falling again outside, coating the world in white.

Downstairs, Nathaniel sat alone in the dark living room with the scarf in his hands. He twisted it, pressed it to his face, breathing in lavender and regret.

The silence felt like it did the night his wife died.

Hollow. Merciless.

And for the first time in years, Nathaniel Carter didn’t know how to make it stop.

Morning arrived with a silence so heavy it felt wrong.

Nathaniel woke late, checked the clock, and his stomach tightened. The house was still.

No footsteps. No humming. No Betty asking for pancakes.

He stepped into the hallway. Sandra’s room was empty, door open.

A sharp cold spread through him.

“Betty?” he called.

No answer.

He rushed to her room.

The bed was empty. The blanket pushed aside. Her slippers were gone.

So was her coat.

Nathaniel’s heart dropped like a stone.

He ran downstairs. The front door was ajar, cracked just enough for snow to drift inside and pool on the floor.

Panic exploded through him.

He grabbed his phone with shaking hands. “This is Nathaniel Carter,” he said into the dispatcher, voice breaking. “My daughter is missing. Four years old. Blonde hair, brown eyes, red coat, boots. Please… send someone.”

He didn’t wait for comfort. He threw on boots, coat, and ran into the storm.

He shouted her name down streets swallowed by snow. Neighbors peeked through curtains. No one had seen her.

His breath came in ragged gasps, his voice freezing mid-word. He stopped at a corner, bent over, hands on his knees.

“Please,” he whispered. “Not my daughter too.”

Then memory flickered.

The bus stop.

The bench.

The scarf.

That night.

He took off running.

Blocks blurred. Snow swallowed his footprints behind him. And at the fourth intersection, he saw her.

A small figure in red, curled on the icy bench, arms wrapped around something clutched to her chest.

Nathaniel dropped to his knees in the snow. “Betty!”

She looked up through tears, cheeks raw from wind. In her mittened hands was a crayon drawing: a family. A tall man. A blonde woman. A little girl between them.

“Daddy,” she said, voice trembling but steady, “I wanted to find Mommy Sandra.”

Nathaniel pulled her into his arms like he could stitch the world back together with sheer force. He kissed her hair, face pressed into her coat.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, over and over. “So, so sorry.”

Sandra hadn’t planned to stay long at the nursing home. Her former colleague Margaret had offered a spare room until Sandra could figure things out. The tiny guest space was warm and smelled faintly of lavender, but it didn’t feel like home.

Sandra sat by the window watching snow fall onto the nursing home’s back garden, trying not to let her heart do the thing it kept doing: reaching.

Then she saw a red coat outside.

Across the road, by the old bus stop bench, sat a small child shivering.

Sandra’s breath caught hard.

She stood so fast the teacup in her hand clattered to the floor.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no…”

But it was real.

Betty was curled up, arms around her knees, holding a crumpled drawing against her chest.

Sandra ran.

She flew down the steps in slippers, coat barely buttoned, ignoring Margaret calling after her. The cold hit like a slap, but she didn’t feel it. All she saw was the child alone in the snow.

“Betty!” she cried.

Betty’s head snapped up. The moment their eyes met, the little girl stood and ran.

Sandra dropped to her knees just in time to catch her, arms wrapping around her like a lifeline. Betty clung to her with everything she had.

“I missed you,” Betty sobbed. “I looked everywhere.”

Sandra was crying too now, burying her face in Betty’s coat. “I’m here,” she whispered. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

Footsteps pounded through the snow.

Nathaniel rounded the corner, face flushed, hair wild, chest heaving. His eyes locked on Betty in Sandra’s arms, and something inside him cracked wide open.

He stopped, breathless, then stepped closer.

Sandra looked up, and for the first time since she left, their eyes truly met.

Nathaniel dropped to his knees in the snow. Not from exhaustion. From surrender.

“I was wrong,” he said, voice raw. “I let fear speak for me.”

Sandra said nothing. She held Betty, heart hammering.

Nathaniel swallowed hard. “I thought I was protecting her… protecting myself. But I was just pushing away the one thing we both needed.”

He pulled something from his coat pocket: a small, worn box. Simple. Honest.

He opened it. Inside was a gold ring, understated, familiar. But engraved inside the band were four new words:

Second chances begin here.

Nathaniel’s voice broke. “Not just for Betty. For me. For us.” He exhaled shakily. “Stay. Not just tonight. Stay for everything.”

Sandra stared at the ring, at the man kneeling in the snow, at the child trembling between them.

For a long moment she said nothing.

Then she reached for Nathaniel’s hand and closed it gently over the ring box.

“You don’t need to ask,” she whispered. “We’re already home.”

She pulled him into the embrace, and together, with Betty between them, they held on as if letting go would undo everything they had fought to feel.

Snow kept falling, soft and silent, covering the bench, the streets, the hurt.

But in that small patch of the world, something warmer took root.

Something worth beginning again.

One year later, snow fell softly outside the wide windows of a newly built community health center just a few blocks from the old hospital.

Inside, warmth hummed through bright hallways. Soft music played. The scent of cinnamon and pine drifted from cups of cider in mittened hands.

The ribbon-cutting ceremony had just ended. Staff and visitors mingled, smiling, talking, laughing.

A small girl with a red bow climbed onto a low step stool behind the microphone. Betty Carter, now five, stood tall with a paper in her mittened hands.

She took a deep breath.

“Once I was quiet,” she began. “Once I was small. But my mommy found me… and now I stand tall.”

A hush fell over the room.

Betty smiled and turned to glance at the woman in the front row.

Sandra stood in a white nurse’s coat, her embroidered name reading: Sandra Carter, RN, Head Nurse.

Betty cleared her throat and finished, voice bright and steady.

“Mommy gave me a voice. Now she helps other people find theirs.”

The applause was thunderous.

Sandra laughed, cheeks pink, eyes glistening. Nathaniel, standing beside her, squeezed her hand gently, the way you hold something precious without trying to own it.

Later that evening, at home, the three of them gathered in the living room. The tree lights twinkled. The house was still, but not cold. Not anymore.

Betty yawned, head resting on Sandra’s shoulder. “Mommy,” she mumbled sleepily, “we have everything now, right?”

Sandra kissed her hair. “Yes, baby,” she whispered. “Everything we need.”

Nathaniel looked up at Sandra, eyes warm, voice low.

“Home,” he said, “is not a place. It’s you.”

Outside, snow danced against the glass.

Inside, the lights glowed soft and golden, full of second chances.

THE END