I put up a homeless man who was wearing a leg brace for one night because my son kept staring at him despite the cold. I left for work the next morning, thinking he would have left by evening.

“I was looking for ingredients, not personal items,” he replied evenly. “I made a note of what I used.”
He pointed to a folded note near my keys.

Bread, cheese, carrots, celery, stock cubes. To be renewed as soon as possible.

“Replace? With what?”

Before he could reply, Oliver burst out of the corridor, his backpack bouncing.

“Mom! Adrian fixed the door that was always sticking!”

I blinked. “Fixed?”

“It closes perfectly now,” Oliver said proudly. “And he made me finish my homework first.”

Adrian’s lips twitched slightly. “He concentrates well when it’s quiet.”

I headed towards the front door, the one that had been creaking and jamming for months.

It closed without any problem. The lock turned effortlessly.

Relief and unease clashed within me.

“Where did you learn to do this kind of repair?”

“Before I injured my knee, I worked in building and facilities maintenance for a hospital contractor,” he said.

The next question was more abrupt than I had imagined: “Why were you sleeping in front of the supermarket last night?”

His gaze lowered. “Disputes related to workers’ compensation. Unpaid rent. Family support… has disappeared.”

I crossed my arms, concentrating. “I agreed to let you stay one night.”
“I understand,” he said gently. “I didn’t intend to stay longer than planned. But I couldn’t leave without trying to make up for the risk you took.”

Then he did something that made my spine tense up.

He reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a neatly sorted pile of mail, categorized by type.

“I didn’t open anything sealed,” he added immediately. “Your landlord’s notice was already open on the counter.”

My throat tightened.