Layers of dirt covered her skin. The smell made me instinctively step backward.
“What is she doing here?” I demanded. The woman lowered her eyes. Adrian remained calm.
“Her name is Rose.” “Is that really her name?” “She doesn’t remember.”
The woman explained that she had spent roughly twenty years moving between shelters, stations, parks, and abandoned buildings.
Her earliest clear memory was waking among debris near a construction site two decades earlier.
She remembered nothing before that. No family. No address. Not even her full name.
Adrian had met her while volunteering. “I’m helping her recover her identity,” he said.
“Until we find somewhere safe for her, she’s staying in the guest suite.”
“In our house?” “Yes.” The woman immediately moved toward the door. “I don’t want to cause trouble.”
Adrian stopped her gently. “You aren’t causing trouble.” Then he looked at me.
“Elena, the bath upstairs is ready. Help her wash.” I stared at him. “Me?”
“Yes. And don’t call the staff. Do it yourself.” I became furious. But Adrian’s next words silenced me.
“If you believe she is beneath you, then maybe the first thing you need to do is look at her closely enough to remember she is a person.”
Angry and embarrassed, I led Rose upstairs. I pulled on rubber gloves.
I spoke coldly. I treated her clothing like garbage. And when she politely offered to wash herself, I told her I did not want her damaging the marble bathroom.
