Mate, how long have you been living here? What on earth do you even eat?

Im 60 now, retired for quite some time, living quietly on my own. It’s been a decade since I started living aloneno husband, no children, and rarely a friend around. My children have their own lives and families in other cities, my husband has passed away, and I find my own joy and amusement in my little cottage in the countryside. As soon as the weather grows mild, I move there, tidy up the cottage and garden, then set to planting and tending to my flowerbeds. I find real peace and relaxation in that routine.
But when winter comes, I simply cant stay therethe snow is just too troublesome, and Ive no one to help me clear it. So, reluctantly, I come back into town. I muddle through autumn well enough, though. This past September, I caught a bit of a chill and stayed in the city for a week or so, but the moment I felt myself again and the weather softened, I dashed straight back to my cherished village retreat.
As I walked up to my cottage, I noticed the gate was wide open. Immediately, I thoughtsomeones been in the garden. Most things seemed untouched, but then I saw the door ajar. I was instantly afraid that someone had burgled the place. I crept inside softly. Strangely, everything was as I had left it, except for a blanket slightly askew and a mug sitting out on the table. I always wash up, so that was odd. Something was out of place.
My fear soon shifted to irritation. Who, I wondered, was making themselves at home and drinking from my mug? I glanced out the window to see a strange boy sitting out back, a little fire glowing in front of him as he warmed his hands by the flames. There he wasmy unexpected guest.
I stepped outside, coughing to make my presence known. The rascal startled, looked frightened, but didnt run. In fact, he came straight over to me:
Please forgive me, miss. I havent been here long
His voice was quiet, humble, and he looked so small that I couldnt help but feel a pang of sympathy.
How long have you been here? Have you had anything to eat? I asked.
Just two days I havent had much to eat. Had some bread, but now Ive only crumbs left
With a sort of pride, the boy showed me his fishing rod, with a crust of white bread stuck on the hook.
Whats your name, love? And how did you end up here?
Im Oliver. My mum and stepdad threw me out. I dont want to live with them…
Surely the whole village is looking for you, I said.
No ones bothered, really. They never notice. Ive run away before. Can be gone for weeks and no one cares, not even when I come back starvingtheyre never glad to see me.
Turned out, Oliver wasnt from our village at all. His story, as ordinary as it was heartbreaking: an unemployed mother, new stepdads coming and going, not much food in the house, but there was always booze and drunks about.
After hearing all that, my heart just broke. How could I not help? I let the boy stay in the cottage, fed him, and spent the night deep in thought. By morning, I recalled an old friend from years ago who, if memory served, now worked in the council. I decided to ring herif she couldnt help directly, at least shed know which way to point me.
She assured me she could assist, promised to oversee things herself. It meant days of paperwork and visits here and there, but after several weeks, I was granted legal guardianship of Oliver. He was beside himself with disbeliefand his mother never once inquired after him.
Now we live something like a grandmother and grandsonwinters spent in my flat, the rest of the year at the cottage. Soon, Oliver will start at the local school, and I have every confidence in him; already he writes, reads, does his sums, and his drawings! He really is quite the little artist.