That night, I was driving home from a late shift, gripping the wheel as rain pounded down so hard I could barely see. I was convinced that I was going to have an accident. It was the kind of rain that made me feel like I was underwater.
I hated it. Then, I saw him. He was on the side of the road, by the rundown bus stop, hunched over, a torn jacket clinging to his thin frame.
“Hey!” I called out through the rolled-down window. “Are you okay?”
He turned, and even through the rain, I saw his face—pale, soaked, and utterly exhausted. He didn’t say a word, just nodded weakly.
“Get in,” I said, unlocking the door. He climbed into the car, shivering so violently that I immediately cranked up the heat. He didn’t say much, just kept muttering under his breath as I drove him to my tiny house a few miles away.
“Thank you,” he said through chattering teeth. That night, I gave him dry clothes. When my dad passed away, my mother packed most of his clothing away in boxes and dropped it off.
“I can’t look at them, Celia,” she said. “Please, darling. Keep them here.”
For months, I’d wondered what I’d do with his clothes, but tonight they had come in handy.
I made him a batch of comforting chicken noodle soup and let him sleep on my worn-out couch. “I’m James,” he said as he was washing his hands in the kitchen sink. “I’m Celia,” I said, adding the chicken to the soup.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
Tap READ MORE to discover the rest 🔎👇
