When Henry provides shelter to a homeless woman, he doesn’t predict much, just a quiet act of kindness. But two days later, his garage is transformed, and Dorothy is nothing like she seemed.
My name’s Henry. I’m thirty, and I’ve lived alone in my childhood home ever since my mom passed away last year.
Too quiet. Too big. Too… empty. I kept busy with work, my girlfriend, Sandra (we weren’t living together yet), and kind of just… existing.
Then, on one rainy night, I saw her.
She sat hunched on the curb beneath a dying streetlamp, drenched, motionless. She was older, maybe in her late fifties or sixties, but something about her seemed off.
She just sat there. Still. Contained.
“Hey,” I called out. “Why don’t you find shelter somewhere?”
She turned her head slowly toward me.
“I’m tired of moving from shelter to shelter,” she said.
“It’s pointless, son.”
Before I even thought it through, I blurted,
“You can stay in my garage!”
“Your garage?”
I nodded.
“It’s better than it sounds,” I said.
“It’s got a small room inside. Old but livable. There’s a toilet, a bed, running water. It’s messy because I haven’t been there in a year. My mother’s caregiver stayed there sometimes. I’ll clean it up this weekend, I promise.”
“Well,” she murmured. “I’ve got nothing left to lose. Alright. I’ll come. I’m Dorothy.”
“I’m Henry. I just picked up some food,” I said. “Come, I’m parked around the corner.”
And just like that, I brought a stranger home.
The next morning, I let Dorothy sleep in.
“You let a homeless stranger move into your garage? Henry, what if she’s dangerous?” she shrieked, putting the kettle on…..