**The Caretaker of Our Estate**
Emily trudged home in the early autumn dusk. The streetlamps, as usual, weren’t all working, and the courtyard was pitch black. There was always a massive puddle by the entrance in autumn, and the parked cars made it impossible to avoid. But today, despite the drizzle, the puddle was gone.
Emily pushed open the front door and glanced back. The light from the hallway spilled onto the wet, glistening tarmac. *“Not my imagination. Wonders never cease.”*
The lift was waiting for her on the ground floor, which was odd—normally, by evening, it was stuck at the top. The doors parted invitingly. *“Unbelievable. No, something miraculous has definitely happened,”* Emily thought, stepping inside. She pressed the button and caught a quick glimpse of her reflection in the smudged mirror.
A tired face with sad eyes stared back. She turned away, automatically tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear—her habitual fussing. Just then, the lift jerked to a stop, the doors creaked open, and she stepped out onto her floor.
“Home,” she announced to the empty flat, flicking the switch and startling the shadows into retreat.
Six months ago, her mother had passed away. Since then, the flat had become a space for loneliness, emptiness, and memories. Emily no longer rushed home, often lingering at the office. Everyone else clocked out at six on the dot, but she stayed—tidying her desk, drafting tomorrow’s to-do list. Her colleagues didn’t like her much; they called her pedantic and inflexible. She just believed in working efficiently and expected the same from others.
Before, she’d had her ill mother to care for—no time to wallow or feel sorry for herself. Once a strict schoolteacher, her mum had raised Emily to be exacting. She’d learned to do everything *just right*, though not without some internal rebellion. Now, she’d turned out the same way.
There’d been one proper romance in her life. But it had fizzled out before reaching the altar. Her mother was already unwell then, and Emily refused to move in with her fiancé—she couldn’t leave her mum alone. And he wouldn’t agree to live in a tiny flat with a sick future mother-in-law.
So, at thirty-two, Emily was alone. The men at work were either married or couldn’t keep their eyes—or hands—to themselves. And outside of work? She never went anywhere. Not before, because of her mum, and now, out of sheer exhaustion and indifference to her own life. Another solitary evening stretched ahead—TV or a book.
On Saturday, she woke late, stretched, and peered out the window. The estate was dusted with snow, thin enough that dark footprints already crisscrossed it. That meant it wasn’t freezing; the snow would melt soon. Suddenly, she wanted to walk across that fragile white blanket, leave her own mark. She hurried to the bathroom.
How much did one need to be happy? Fresh snow and two cosy days off. Emily ate breakfast, bundled up, and stepped outside.
“Em, love! Off to the shops? Fancy grabbing me a loaf and some bread rolls?” The voice came from the slightly open window of the ground-floor neighbour.
“Sure. Need anything else?”
The old woman hesitated. “No, just the bread. Ta.” The window clicked shut.
Well, at least she had a purpose now. Emily walked towards the shop, careful to avoid the footprints of others.
When she handed over the bread, she asked, “What happened to the puddle by the entrance?”
“New caretaker sorted it. Proper job, isn’t it?”
“Where’s the old one, then?” Not that she cared—just politeness.
“Passed away last week. Come in, duck, I’ll tell you all about it.”
With nothing better to do, Emily stepped into the neighbour’s flat, crammed with heavy, old-fashioned furniture.
“Few days back, I was coming from the post office, and there’s this bloke sitting on the bench in the yard. Glum as you like, but not drunk—I know drunk when I see it, my late husband was one. This one didn’t look like a layabout. Every time I peeked out, there he was. Freezing out there, November, mind. So I thought, must have nowhere to go.”
“I went out, asked what he was waiting for. Eyes so sad. Said, ‘Come inside, warm up.’ Told him, ‘If you need work, our caretaker’s just died. Look at this mess of leaves.’ Said, ‘Go to the council in the morning, get the job. Better than sitting here.’”
“And look how he’s scrubbed the place. Hard worker, polite, always says hello. Lives in the storage room now. Poor sod’s got nowhere else. Oh, speak of the devil—” The neighbour nodded towards the window.
A tall man, clearly not old but scruffy enough to look it, was crossing the yard.
The next day, Emily watched from her window as the new caretaker scraped the tarmac with his broom. *Swish-swish, swish-swish.* She studied the rhythmic motions. Didn’t seem like the type for manual labour. Curiosity prickled. Soon, chance intervened.
She was taking out the rubbish when she tripped. A strong hand caught her.
“Thanks,” she said, recognising him.
From under the woolly beanie (inherited from the last caretaker), intelligent grey eyes met hers. The scruffy stubble made him look gaunt.
“You’re the new caretaker,” she observed, studying him.
“Suppose so,” he muttered, walking off.
*“What a grump,”* Emily thought, dumping the rubbish.
Another time, returning from the shops, she bumped into him hauling boxes from the storage room. She blocked his path, said hello, then sidestepped.
“Why *you* as a caretaker? It’s pensioner work, and you’re young,” she called after him.
“What’s it to you?” He glanced back but didn’t stop.
“Just curious,” she pressed.
He didn’t answer, his entire demeanour screaming that he had no intention of baring his soul—least of all to this pale, nosy moth of a woman.
“Rude,” Emily huffed, but he was already gone.
*“Weird bloke. Why’d I even bother? He’ll think I’m some desperate singleton chasing the caretaker.”* Annoyed at herself and him, she hurried home.
She started watching him from her window—sweeping, clearing the playground. Didn’t seem like a man who’d given up. Educated, clearly. Something had gone wrong.
The neighbour eventually filled her in.
“Girls at the council say his business went bust, left him skint. Wife kicked him out. Ended up on the streets.”
“That’s awful,” Emily murmured.
“Too proud, that’s his trouble.”
She began greeting him first. He’d nod curtly in return. Always alone, holed up in that tiny room. A man could disappear like that. She decided to help.
She scribbled a note and slipped it under his door: *“Flat 14. Fancy a cuppa?”* Just kindness, no expectations.
Hours later, her buzzer rang. There he stood, scowling, beanie pulled low.
“Why?” he demanded.
“What?”
“This. Why?” He brandished the note.
“People should help each other.”
He shook his head, dismissive.
“What if I’m a thief? A psycho? Not scared I’ll nick your telly?”
“You? Don’t be daft. You’ve got kind eyes. Come in.”
He stepped inside. She warmed soup, then served a roast dinner. His rough hands were blistered—unused to labour.
“Parents?” she asked, filling the silence.
“Mum. Lives up North.”
“I’ve no one,” she blurted, then panicked. *Now he knows you’re alone, you idiot.*
“Right. I’ll go. Food was grand. But… don’t do this again.” He left.
She felt stung. She’d tried to be kind, and he’d thrown it back. Fine. But she kept thinking about him, lingering for glimpses. He ignored her.
On Christmas Eve, Emily bought a real tree. Fumbling for her keys, she wrestled with the prickly thing—then the door slammed shut.
“For crying out—!”
“Need a hand?” The caretaker appeared. He hefted the tree, waiting while she unlocked the door.
“Ta,” she said at the lift. But he followed her in, carried the tree to her flat, propped it against the wall, and left.
She shut the door—then froze. Her handbag was gone. She’d put it on the side table, she *remembered*.
*“You absolute fool. Trusting some stranger—”* She flew out the door. His footsteps echoed below.
“Stop!” she yelled over the railing.
As the first buds of spring appeared, Emily glanced out the window and smiled—watching Denis scatter fresh gravel along the path, his hands now calloused but steady, and she knew she’d never walk alone again.
