I never expected to share my home with a stranger, let alone someone I found sitting alone under a flickering streetlamp on a rainy night. But that’s exactly what happened.
My name is Henry. I’m 30 and have been living alone in my childhood home since my mother passed away last year. My father left when I was young, so it had always been just the two of us. Without her, the house felt too big, too quiet, too empty. I kept myself busy with work, my girlfriend Sandra, and a routine that felt more like existing than living. I needed something more—something that reminded me that life was more than just going through the motions.
Then, on a particularly rainy night, I saw her. She sat under the glow of a dimming streetlamp, drenched but motionless. She appeared to be in her late fifties or early sixties, but her stillness felt unsettling. She wasn’t seeking help or calling attention to herself. She simply sat there as if the rain was just another part of her world.
I could have walked on by. I should have. But something about her made me stop. “Hey,” I called out. “You should find shelter.”
She turned slowly, her face lined with age but her eyes sharp and intelligent. They held a kindness I wasn’t expecting. In a way, they reminded me of my mother. Without thinking, I said, “I have space in my garage. It’s not much, but it’s better than this.”
She blinked, her brow furrowing. “Your garage?”
“It’s livable,” I assured her. “There’s a bed, running water. Just needs some cleaning. I’ll take care of that this weekend.”
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