**Diary Entry**
I allowed a homeless woman to stay in my garage, but one day I walked in unannounced and was stunned by what I saw.
Once, in a moment of solitude, I, a wealthy man, offered shelter to a homeless woman named Elsie and was struck by her resilience. As our unusual bond grew, a secret discovered in the garage threatened everything, forcing me to question who Elsie truly was and what she was hiding.
I had everything money could buya grand estate in Surrey, luxury cars, and more possessions than Id ever need. Yet inside, an emptiness lingered, impossible to fill. For sixty years, Id never had a family. Women only cared about my inheritance, and now I regret not trying for something real.
One evening, driving through London and trying to numb my loneliness, I spotted a woman rummaging through a bin. Her wild hair and thin frame, yet determined movements, caught my attention. She seemed fragile, but something fierce in her nature intrigued me.
Against my usual caution, I stopped and rolled down the window. When she glanced at me warily, I asked, “Do you need help?”
Her gaze flickered with suspicion, and for a second, I thought shed bolt. Instead, she wiped her hands on her worn jeans and said, “Can you?”
“I think so,” I replied, stepping out, though I wasnt sure why. “Fancy somewhere to stay tonight?”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “No charity.”
“Its not charity,” I said, though no better word came to mind. “Just a place to sleep. No strings.”
After a long pause, she agreed. “One night. Im Elsie.”
We drove to my estate in complete silence, her arms crossed as she stared out the window. The converted garage was simple but comfortable. “Theres food in the fridge. Make yourself at home,” I told her.
“Ta,” she murmured before closing the door.
In the days that followed, Elsie stayed, and sometimes we ate together. She was intriguingbeneath her tough exterior lay a surprising vulnerability. Maybe the loneliness in her eyes mirrored my own, or perhaps her presence eased my isolation.
Over dinner, she shared fragments of her past. “Used to be an artist,” she admitted quietly. “Had a little gallery, a few exhibitions then my husband left me for a younger woman. Lost everything.”
“Sorry,” I said, meaning it.
She shrugged. “Ancient history.” But the pain in her eyes said otherwise.
The more time we spent together, the more I looked forward to our talks. Her sharp wit brightened the emptiness of my estate, and slowly, the void inside me shrank.
Then, one afternoon, everything changed. Searching for a tyre pump in the garage, I walked in unannounced and froze. Dozens of paintings covered the floorgrotesque, distorted portraits of *me*. One showed me chained, another with bleeding eyes, and in the corner, my face stared back from a coffin.
I was stunned. Was this how she saw me? After all Id done for her?
That evening, I couldnt hide my anger. “Elsie, what the hell are these paintings?”
She blinked. “What?”
“I saw themme, in chains, bleeding, *dead*. Do you really see me like that?”
Her face paled. “I didnt want you to see them.”
“Well, I did,” I snapped. “Is this what you think of me?”
“No,” she whispered. “I was just angry. You have everything, and I lost so much. The paintings werent about you. They were about my pain.”
I wanted to understand, but the images haunted me. “I think its time you left,” I said flatly.
Her eyes widened. “Please”
“No. Its over.”
The next morning, I helped her gather her things and drove her to a shelter. Before she left, I pressed a few hundred pounds into her hand. She hesitated but finally took it.
Weeks passed, and the guilt gnawed at me. It wasnt just the paintingsit was what wed shared before, something I hadnt felt in years.
Then, one day, a package appeared at my door. Another paintingbut this time, it was different. Peaceful, almost kind, capturing a side of me I hadnt known existed. Inside was a note with Elsies number.
My heart pounded as I hesitated, then dialled.
“Hello?” Her voice was tentative.
“Elsie, its me. I got your paintingits beautiful.”
“Ta,” she said softly. “Wasnt sure youd like it. Thought you deserved better than the others.”
“You dont owe me anything,” I said. “Im sorry for how I reacted.”
“Im sorry for what I painted,” she replied. “It wasnt really about you.”
“No need to apologise,” I said. “When I saw the new one, I forgave you. Maybe we could start fresh?”
“What dyou mean?” she asked carefully.
“Talk again. If youd like, we could have dinner.”
She paused, then said quietly, “Id like that. I really would.”
We agreed to meet in a few days. Elsie told me shed used the money to buy clothes and find work. Shes even planning to rent a flat soon.
As I hung up, I realised I was smiling. Maybe this was a new beginningfor both of us.
