The young man’s life had unraveled completely. He had nowhere to go, no family who cared, and not a single friend left to turn to.

A distant relative, wanting to help, thought of an elderly woman who lived alone in a spacious apartment. “She’s lonely anyway,” he reasoned. “Why not let the boy stay with her? She’ll have company, and he’ll have a roof over his head.”

The young man was about twenty-five. He arrived at the old woman’s door with nothing but a small rucksack containing a couple of worn shirts, a notebook, and a faded photograph of his parents.

He looked timid and soft-spoken — the kind of person who barely dared to lift his eyes. When the old woman first saw him, something stirred in her heart. He reminded her of her late son — lost somewhere far away, barely calling anymore. She felt immediate pity, a quiet maternal pull she hadn’t felt in years.

She invited him inside without hesitation, fussing over him like he was her own.
“Have you eaten, dear? I’ve got some potatoes with onions… porridge in the morning too, if you’d like.”

She even found him some of her son’s old clothes — a sweater and a pair of trousers that still carried a trace of mothballs and memory.

That night, she made up a bed for him in her son’s old room. She smoothed the pillow, crossed herself, and wished him a soft, heartfelt “Good night.” Then she went to her own room, smiling faintly. For the first time in years, her house no longer felt so painfully empty.

Maybe, she thought, God had sent this young man to ease her loneliness.

But the house creaked in the night — small, shifting sounds that wouldn’t let her rest. She lay awake, eyes half open in the darkness, when a faint rustle from the next room caught her ear.

Her breath caught. The door to her bedroom was slowly opening.

There, in the dim glow of her bedside lamp, stood the young man. His face — once gentle and shy — now seemed hard, unrecognizable. In his hands, he held something.

He stepped toward her, his movements deliberate and silent, careful not to wake her. But she was awake. Frozen in place, she watched, every heartbeat like a hammer against her ribs.

He stopped beside her bed, staring down at her as if trapped in some dark hesitation — as if wrestling with a thought that terrified even him. The woman began to pray silently.

“Lord, what does he mean to do? What’s that in his hands? Why did I trust him…?”

Through half-closed eyes, she saw, in growing horror, what the young man did next… 😱😱

He lifted the pillow.

“This will be better for both of us,” he muttered, voice raw and trembling — and pressed it against her face.

The old woman gasped, her muffled scream breaking through the darkness. She fought back with surprising strength, clawing at his arms. The pillow slipped from his grip, hitting the floor.

Panicked, the young man stepped back — but the old woman screamed again, louder this time:

“Help! Somebody help! He’s trying to kill me!”

The neighbors came running. Her door, thankfully, had never been locked. One burst into the bedroom while another shouted for the police.

The young man stood motionless by the wall, pale as a ghost, as though he himself couldn’t understand what he had done. They restrained him, leading him away into the cold night.

When the police arrived, the truth surfaced quickly — the man was not who he said he was.

His real parents had died years earlier under suspicious circumstances — he had been the only witness. The investigation had gone nowhere, and he had vanished soon after, changing names, drifting from place to place.

Now it was clear: he had planned everything.
He had targeted the kind old woman, intending to stage her death as an accident and claim her apartment as his own.

But that night, divine timing — or perhaps the strength of a desperate heart — had saved her.