**Diary Entry**
I sat across from Emily at the café, barely hearing a word she said. She chatted away, laughing and gesturing, but my mind was miles away.
“Victor, you’re not listening. Is something wrong?” She frowned, studying my face.
“No, no, everything’s fine,” I lied, forcing a smile. “Go on.”
“I can tell when you’re distracted,” she pressed.
“Do you know how to make soup?” The question slipped out before I could stop it.
“What? Soup?” Her nose scrunched in confusion.
“Just simple stuff. Tomato soup, chicken noodle.”
“Well, yeah. Why?”
“I need to ask you something,” I said, suddenly serious.
* * *
Two days in a row now, a rubbish bag had been left outside Flat 15. I’d nearly tripped over it yesterday. This morning, another smaller one had joined it. No smell, just odd. The building was new—barely a year old.
That evening, the bags were still there. I shook my head, deciding to speak to the tenant in the morning.
By the next day, there were three. I knocked, irritation creeping in. Once, twice.
“Coming!” A frail voice called from inside.
The door opened to reveal an elderly woman in a knitted cardigan and glasses. She offered a hesitant smile but seemed embarrassed, edging the door half-shut.
“Morning. These are yours. The cleaner isn’t here to take them.”
“I thought—my grandson promised to visit. I keep meaning to, but my hands…” She held them out, trembling slightly.
“I’ll take them. Don’t worry,” I said, grabbing the bags before she could protest.
* * *
That same evening, as I stepped into the hallway, the door to Flat 15 cracked open.
“Hello, dear. Here—” She held out a tenner. “For your trouble.”
“Don’t be silly. Really.”
“Come in, won’t you? Standing’s hard for me.”
Inside, the flat was sparse—just the basics. Boxes lined the wall: instant noodles, powdered mash, long-life milk.
“It’s no bother. Just don’t leave them outside. I can take them at eight.”
“Thank you, Victor. I’m Margaret. My grandson brings things once a month. Just these hands… sometimes I miss a proper bowl of soup.” She tried to smile.
* * *
Back at the café, Emily prattled on about some dress she’d tried on. I barely responded.
“Honestly, where’s your head at today?” She pouted.
“Sorry. Just thinking.”
“About dessert? The sticky toffee pudding looks good. Or the apple crumble?”
“Do you ever make soup?” I blurted.
“Is this your way of inviting yourself over? Or do you just fancy me in one of your shirts? Fancy a Thai green curry?”
“Just something warm. Tomato, chicken noodle.”
“Order some here and take it to your nan, then,” she snapped. “That’s what social workers are for.”
* * *
I left in a daze. At Tesco, grabbing a drink, I overheard a girl picking chicken.
“For soup?” I asked.
“Yeah. Best cut for it. Proper homely stuff.”
“What else do you need?”
We got talking. Her name was Sophie. She lived nearby. When I mentioned Margaret, she didn’t hesitate.
“Give me an hour and a half. I’ll make a batch.”
* * *
I brought the pot to Margaret. The way her face lit up—like it wasn’t about the soup at all.
When I returned, Sophie just nodded. “Because it wasn’t. Soup’s just the excuse.”
My phone buzzed. Emily. I ignored it.
“Go on, eat. It’ll get cold.”
I smiled. “Soup’s more important anyway.”
