Let Them In [Short Story] ✅

Part 2: In the House

Devon and I have been chewing over whether we should resign ourselves to the woman's offer of help. After all, there is no denying that she is merely offering help to a pair of wounded eighteen-year-old boys. In the end, I approach her daughter, Phoebe, who has been patiently waiting for us on the porch that leads to the backdoor. Honestly, I am quite surprised she even waited for us, especially since we were so abrasive towards her earlier.

She tells me it is completely all right, that she understands our wariness to our surrounding. She offers to carry my backpack, but I tell her I am okay, that Devon is the one who needs proper treatment.

The woman smiles at the sight of us entering the small kitchen. The smell of breakfast wafts through the air, causing me to drool. I have to hold myself back, however. I should not be feeling too comfortable around here - I can't help but still feel exposed, as if a Legionnaire will barge into the front door at any second.

"You can stay for as long as you can," the woman tells us, stirring something in a pot. Devon and I stay rooted on our spots; Devon has this look on his face that tells me not to think of anything else, that we are safe here for as long as we want to be. The woman then turns on her spot and wipes her hands on a towel hung on the wall. "I haven't had proper introductions yet."

"Devon Wolfe," Devon says.

"Garrett Maguire,"

"Well, I am Felicity Green. My daughter there, Phoebe," Felicity Green gives a curt wave to Phoebe, who replies with a small nod. "Call me Felicity, before you even attempt to call me. My husband died, you see."

"I'm sorry," I say - and I mean it. "Both of my parents are dead."

"My sister died last night," Devon chimes in.

"Well, I guess we are all equal," Felicity gives us a warm smile. She then eyes our clothes and shakes her head. "How old are you?"

"We're eighteen,"

"I do not know how you arrived at my back garden. However, I am not going to interrogate you further, as I am sure you did not have enough sleep."

We both just nod.

"I still have Julliard's clothes upstairs," she murmurs to herself. "You might want to need to change, the two of you. Phoebe, dear, would you mind?"

"Yes, Mum," Phoebe shoots up from the chair at that instant.

We follow Phoebe out of the kitchen. Their house is quite small, yet looks so affluent. It gives off the convivial vibe, and I honestly like it. The sitting room is completely neat, with the little radio on the desk broadcasting news. I would stay here and listen, but the thought of a warm shower and warm clothes beat me to it. I hear a few lines from the radio, but they seem to be broadcasting the usual daily news.

Phoebe leads us upstairs and towards a room at the far end of the hallway. She pushes the door open with a loud creak. I had been expecting a bedroom. Instead, it is merely a dark closet. Inside sits piles and piles of neatly folded clothes, some of them are hung on hangers. There are also pairs of worn shoes that look too big for either of us to wear. Phoebe rummages into the closet for a while before retrieving some piles of the clothing items.

"Uncle Tate used to live with us," she starts to say. "He left a couple of months ago and that room over there hasn't been used ever since."

She is pointing to a door near the stairs.

"There's also a bathroom in there, so you don't have to worry," she continues when all we do is nod. "You can put your old clothes into the basket when you're done. You can also eat breakfast with us. Make yourselves at home, okay?"