The rain drummed against the roof of the cottage as Agnes Whitmore heard a timid knock at the door. She set aside her knitting and listened. The knock came again—hesitant, almost apologetic.
“Who’s there?” she called, moving toward the door.
“Please, could you open up?” came a faint woman’s voice. “I’m lost…”
Agnes opened the door a crack, the chain still fastened. On the step stood a young woman of about twenty-five, drenched to the bone. Dark hair clung to her face, and her light jacket was soaked through. She clutched a small handbag.
“Good heavens, you’re soaked!” Agnes unhooked the chain and swung the door wide. “Come in before you catch your death!”
“Thank you so much,” the girl said, stepping inside and leaving wet footprints on the mat. “I’m Emily. I was walking along the footpath, but it led me into the woods. My phone died, and now I don’t even know where I am…”
“Take that wet coat off at once!” Agnes bustled about, helping pull off the sodden jacket. “You’re dripping all over! What on earth were you doing out alone in this weather?”
Emily lowered her eyes.
“I had a row with… with my boyfriend. He kicked me out of the car, told me to walk. I didn’t realise how far it was to town…”
“The nerve of him!” Agnes huffed. “Leaving a girl stranded in the woods! Get into the kitchen, I’ll make tea. You’re shaking like a leaf.”
Emily followed her into the cosy little kitchen. Agnes flicked on the kettle and fetched a fluffy dressing gown from the cupboard.
“Here, change into this. We’ll hang your clothes by the radiator—they’ll dry by morning. Where are you from?”
“I’m from the Midlands,” Emily said vaguely, gratefully accepting the robe. “I work in town, at an office.”
“Honestly, the youth of today!” Agnes shook her head. “In my day, men had some decency—they’d never treat a woman so poorly. But now… Sit down, I’ll fix you something to eat.”
She clattered about at the stove, pulling eggs and butter from the fridge. In minutes, she’d fried up a plateful and set it before Emily with bread and homemade pickles.
“Eat up, don’t be shy. You look half-starved—when did you last have a meal?”
“Just a bite at breakfast,” Emily admitted, tucking in. “We spent the whole day arguing…”
“What was the row about, if you don’t mind my asking?”
Emily chewed her bread thoughtfully.
“He wanted us to move in together. But I’ve got my job, my own plans. I’m not ready yet. So he blew up, said awful things…”
“Quite right not to rush,” Agnes approved. “At your age, I hurried into marrying the first man who asked. Thought love would see us through. It didn’t. He left me with a baby boy, ran off with another woman.”
“You have a son?” Emily asked.
“Had,” Agnes said darkly. “He—we don’t get on. Rarely see him now.”
She poured herself tea, stirring sugar absently.
“Are you here all alone?” Emily ventured.
“Just me. This cottage was built by my late husband—my second. Good man, gone too soon. Now I only come up in summer, and not every year. Flat in London for the winters.”
Emily nodded, finishing her food. The rain had eased, but dusk was gathering outside.
“Listen, love,” Agnes said, “stay the night. I’ll take you to the bus stop in the morning. No sense wandering out now in the dark and wet.”
“Are you sure? I don’t want to impose…”
“Nonsense! I’d welcome the company. Sofa in the parlour’s comfy, and there’s clean bedding. Make yourself at home.”
They talked late into the evening. Emily spoke of her job at a retail firm, the struggles of renting in the city. Agnes reminisced about her youth and sighed over her loneliness.
“All my friends have moved on—some passed, others living with their children. Even the neighbours here are poorly or gone. It’s dull on your own…”
“Why don’t you see your son?” Emily asked gently.
Agnes’s face hardened.
“His wife can’t stand me. Says I meddle. Do I not have a right to know how my grandkids are doing? Now they don’t even invite me for holidays…”
The next morning dawned bright. Agnes packed Emily a breakfast for the road and walked her to the bus stop.
“Thank you so much,” Emily said earnestly. “You really saved me!”
“Bless you. Come back anytime you like—here’s the address.”
Emily noted it in her phone and waved from the bus window.
Weeks passed. Agnes had nearly forgotten her chance guest when she heard the same knock.
“Emily!” she exclaimed, opening the door. “How lovely! Come in!”
“Could I stay a day or two?” Emily asked hesitantly. “They’re renovating the building where I rent—the landlord said to stay with family, but I’ve got none around…”
“Of course, stay as long as you need. I’ll be glad of the company.”
Emily settled into the little upstairs room. She helped with chores, cooked, cleaned. Agnes was delighted.
“Better than any daughter,” she told her neighbour Doris. “Cooks a roast like a dream, even knits! Wish I had a daughter-in-law like her…”
Days slipped by in quiet harmony. Emily commuted to work, returning each evening. They shared meals, watched telly, discussed the news.
“You know, Emily,” Agnes said one night, “I’ve been thinking of my will. Flat to my son, of course, but this cottage… Maybe to you? It’s not like anyone else cares for it, and you’ve been happy here.”
Emily flushed.
“Don’t talk like that! It’s too soon. And it’s not right—you’ve a son, grandchildren…”
“A son who’s turned stranger. You’re like a daughter to me.”
Time wore on. Emily fitted into the house as if she’d always been there. Agnes bloomed under the care and chatter, no longer lonely.
Then everything changed.
Agnes was hospitalised after a heart attack. Emily visited daily, bringing treats, reading aloud.
“The doctor says you’ll be discharged soon,” she told her one evening. “You’ll recover at home.”
“Emily,” Agnes said weakly, “there’s something I must tell you. In the bedside cabinet, back drawer—there’s an envelope with important papers. If anything happens to me…”
“Don’t say that!” Emily cut in. “You’ll be fine!”
But Agnes worsened. Doctors murmured about surgery.
Emily returned from the hospital upset. She went to the bedroom, opened the drawer. Among the papers lay the will. The cottage was indeed left to her.
She sat holding the documents a long while. Then she took out her phone and dialed.
“Charles? It’s Emily. We met… Yes, that’s right. Your mother’s in hospital—it’s serious. You should come.”
Next day, a man in his fifties arrived with his wife and two teens. Charles Whitmore had his mother’s grey eyes, the same stubborn jaw.
“Where is she?” he demanded, barely over the threshold.
“In hospital. They’re operating,” Emily said.
“And who are you?” his wife snapped, eyeing Emily coldly.
“I—I’ve been staying here. Agnes invited me.”
“Right,” the woman scoffed. “Another stray.”
Charles prowled the cottage, peering into rooms.
“Quite the upgrades,” he muttered. “She’s done well—new telly, new fridge…”
“We bought them together,” Emily said softly. “I helped.”
“Helped?” His wife smirked. “How generous. Or were you eyeing the inheritance?”
Emily paled but stayed silent.
At the hospital, Agnes brightened at the sight of her son.
“Charlie! You came!” She reached out weakly.
Charles gave her fingers an awkward pat.
“How are you, Mum? What do the doctors say?”
“They want to operate. What if I don’t make it?”
“Rubbish! You’ll pull through,” he said gruffly.
His wife stood back, inspecting her nails. The children fidgeted, bored.
“Mum, when are we leaving?” the younger whined. “This place stinks of medicine.”
Back at the cottage, Charles’s wife began rifling through drawers.
“Where does she keep her papers?” she asked when Emily went to the shops.
“Dunno. Bedside table, probably.”
They found the will quickly. His wife gasped.
“She’s left the cottage to this stranger! What are we supposed to do, live on the street? Has she no conscience?”
“Don’t fuss,” Charles mumbled. “SheAgnes passed away that winter, never knowing the truth, and Emily, long gone, still carried the guilt of betrayal—not hers, but theirs.
