The rain lashed against our kitchen window, turning an ordinary December evening into something heavy and foreboding. I was stirring soup, half-listening to the radio, when the front door flew open.
My husband, Arthur, stood there soaked through, his face tense in a way I didn’t recognize.
“Sarah,” he said quietly, “there’s a woman outside. An older woman. She needs help.”
That alone set off a familiar unease. Arthur had always been kind to a fault—the kind of man who couldn’t pass someone in trouble without stopping. I set the ladle down and waited.
Her name, he explained, was Eleanor. His flight had been delayed for hours, and she’d been sitting alone at the airport, confused and exhausted. Her connecting flight was canceled, her phone was dead, and she had nowhere to go. The airline offered a hotel voucher she couldn’t realistically manage on her own.
“She just needs one night,” Arthur said, searching my face. “She’s traveling to see family for the holidays.”
It was Christmas week. The guest room was empty. And the worry in his eyes made the decision for me.
“Bring her in,” I said.
Eleanor was small and fragile, with soft blue eyes and wisps of white hair escaping a thin wool coat. She carried a worn leather suitcase and spoke with a gentle dignity that made it impossible not to like her.
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