Last Christmas Eve, loneliness weighed on me like the heavy snowfall outside. I had just returned from visiting my late husband Michael’s grave, a tradition that always deepened the ache of his absence.
This year, the emptiness felt sharper. My son David had called earlier to say they wouldn’t be visiting because my granddaughter Lily was sick. “We’ll come as soon as she’s better, I promise,” he said. I understood, but the silence of the house felt overwhelming.
Driving home through the snow-laden streets, I noticed a figure huddled under a streetlamp. At first, I thought it was a shadow, but as I got closer, I saw a young man shivering in a thin, worn jacket.
I stopped the car and rolled down the window. “Are you alright? Why are you out here in this weather?”
He looked up, his brown eyes filled with exhaustion. “I… I have nowhere to go,” he murmured.
Without much thought, I said, “You’ll freeze out here. Get in.”
Hesitant but grateful, he climbed in. His name was Carlos, and while he was cautious, he accepted my offer to stay the night. At home, I gave him some of my son’s old clothes and showed him to the bathroom to freshen up. While he showered, I made hot cocoa, adding marshmallows I usually saved for Lily.
When he returned, looking cleaner but still guarded, we settled into an easy companionship, watching a Christmas movie before I showed him to the guest room.
Later that night, I woke to the creak of floorboards. My heart raced as I saw Carlos standing in my doorway, holding something. Panic surged.
“STOP! What are you doing?” I shouted.
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