Hey love, youve got to hear whats been going on since I moved into my new flat in Camden. Im still living among unopened boxes, because work swallows all my evenings I sit at my laptop until its dark, and the only room Ive actually managed to set up is the kitchen. Cookings my way to unwind after a long day.
I barely know the neighbours. I just nod in the lift now and then. So when there was a knock on my door, I didnt immediately recognise the nervouslooking woman.
Sorry to bother you, Im Sarah, she said, stumbling over her words, glancing constantly at the two kids standing stiff behind her like tiny sparrows. Im Sarah Morgan, your neighbour. Ive got a bit of a problem
She kept looking over her shoulder at the children a thin boy with sharp eyes and a little girl, a bit younger, with braids pulled so tight they seemed ready to snap.
Ive got to leave for a couple of hours, absolutely urgent. Could you?
Look after the kids? I finished for her. Honestly, the idea didnt thrill me. Im used to my own quiet, but refusing felt odd.
Please! Ill be back in a flash.
The kids slipped into the flat as silently as if they werent there at all. Sarah whispered something in their ears and was gone in an instant.
So, what are your names? I tried to sound as friendly as possible.
Ethan, the boy whispered.
Poppy, the girl echoed.
Want a drink? I asked, heading for the kitchen.
Ethan looked at his sister and murmured, Um can I have some?
There was something in his voice that made me freeze it sounded like a forbidden request.
Of course, I said, Ive got juice, water, tea.
While I fetched glasses, I saw Poppy stealing a glance at a jar of biscuits. The moment I turned round she looked away.
Help yourself, I baked these myself, I slid the jar closer.
Really, can I? she whispered again, that odd tone.
To ease the tension I started talking about my little collection of cookbooks, pulling out the prettiest one with pictures of cakes. The kids edged closer, but still flinched at every loud noise a slammed window or a car alarm outside.
Sarah returned after about four hours, storming in like a gale.
Ethan! Poppy! Back to your flat, now!
The kids jumped up on cue. Poppy snagged the jar with her sleeve, sending it tumbling. She froze, eyes wide.
Its alright, no harm, I soothed, noticing she kept rubbing her wrist and tugging at her coat. A faint bruise showed on her pale skin, as if from a hard grip.
Thanks, Sarah tossed over her shoulder, practically shoving the kids out into the hallway.
I stood there, watching the door close, feeling something was terribly wrong.
You know how a nagging thought can just sit in your head? Thats how I felt watching those kids scared, on edge, like cornered animals.
A week later I noticed Sarahs flat always had heavy curtains, even on sunny days. I never heard the children laughing or playing, just occasional sharp shouts from their mother and doors slamming shut.
Shes strict, raises them right, the lady on the ground floor said when I asked. Not like the kids these days, who think they can have anything.
One Thursday I ran into Ethan at the supermarket. He was at the cereal aisle, frantically counting coins in his hand.
Hey Ethan! I called.
He jumped so hard the coins scattered across the floor. We both knelt to pick them up, and I saw his fingers trembling.
Please dont tell my mum I saw you, he whispered, clutching a packet of the cheapest porridge.
Why? I asked, but he was already darting away, nearly bumping other shoppers.
That evening Sarah knocked again.
Natalie, I need a favor. I have to be away all day. Ill pay whatever you say.
I turned down the money. Something told me I needed to keep an eye on those kids longer.
The whole day felt different. The children gradually relaxed. I put on an old cartoon about a sleepy village, and Poppy giggled softly when the cat argued with the dog. Later we baked biscuits together.
My mums house never smells like this, Ethan murmured while cutting out shapes.
What does your mums house smell like? I asked.
Cigarettes and, he stopped when his sister tugged his sleeve.
A sudden clatter in the kitchen made them both raise their hands to protect their faces. It cracked something inside me.
My mum scolds us when were noisy, Poppy whispered, dropping her hands. And when we eat at the wrong time. And
Poppy! Ethan snapped.
I pretended to be absorbed in icing the biscuits, but I caught a faint red stripe on Poppys neck peeking out from under her collar. She hurriedly adjusted her shirt when she saw me looking.
We have to be good so mum doesnt get angry, Ethan said, concentrating on the glaze. Then everything will be normal.
Normal, I thought, looking at those smart, sweet kids who were clearly anything but normal.
That night, when I handed the kids back to Sarah, I could smell alcohol on her breath. She didnt even ask how the day wentshe just grabbed their hands and whisked them away.
I stayed by the window for a long while, watching the darkened flats across the courtyard. Something had to be done, but what? I thought about calling the authorities.
Are you going to do anything? I asked the local officer after a long chat.
What can we do? Theres no evidence. The mothers paperwork is all in order. Maybe youre just imagining things?
Sleep fled me for several nights. After I called the police, Sarah started looking at me with a mix of challenge and hidden threat. The kids eyes never met mine again, as if Id betrayed them. How did she know? Perhaps someone tipped her off.
I knocked on a few neighbours doors, but met a wall of indifference.
What, youre getting attached? the old lady on the third floor scoffed. Just one kid, she doesnt drink well, almost doesnt. And you?
In the shop I was luckier. The shopkeeper, Mrs. Patel, a plump woman with kind eyes, struck up a conversation.
I see those kids a lot. The boy always counts his spare change, grabs the cheapest stuff. Their mother she shows up later, buying decent whisky, not the cheap kind, she said, lowering her voice.
Do the kids live with her long? I asked.
Hard to say. They showed up about two years ago. They dont look like her at all, not a bit.
That evening the whole building shook. I was at my laptop when voices rose, then grew louder, glass shattering, children crying.
I dialed the police again.
When they arrived, Sarah was at the door, smiling brightly.
Sorry about the noise, the telly was on full blast, she said.
The officers exchanged glances. One stepped inside.
Where are the kids? he asked.
Theyre asleep, Sarah replied. Its late now.
They checked the bedrooms. The children lay very still, too still for sleep. Poppy turned her head just enough for me to see a fresh scrape on her cheek.
She fell, Sarah hurriedly said. Shes always a bit clumsy.
The police left, and I was left with that helpless, angry feeling.
Two days later there was a soft knock. Ethan stood on the landing, pale, his lips bitten.
Here, he handed me a crumpled note. Its from Poppy.
The scribbled paper read: Help us. Please.
Hes not our mum, Ethan blurted, covering his mouth, eyes darting to the stairwell. We dont remember how we got here. We only recall another house another, he stopped, then ran.
The notes back was written in a shaking childs hand: She says shell punish us if we tell anyone.
I didnt close my eyes that night. In the morning I decided to act.
You think youre meddling in someone elses business? Sarah hissed, pinning me against the hallway wall, reek of cheap gin. You think Im the sweet old lady? I know who called the police. Ive involved social services.
I met her gaze calmly.
You know what I think? Those kids arent yours.
She recoiled as if slapped. Fear flickered in her eyes.
Rubbish! I have papers!
Probably forged, I replied.
The night before, Id spent hours on the phone calling child services, NGOs, even a private investigator, filing reports everywhere.
Dont you dare, Sarah spat. Youll regret this.
Later that evening a social worker called.
Ms. Clarke? Weve crosschecked the details. Five years ago two siblings vanished in Manchester a boy and a girl, ages matching Ethan and Poppy. Their description matches too, she said.
My hands trembled.
What now?
Were involving the police. Be ready to give a statement.
Sarah sensed something. I heard her rummaging through cupboards, jangling keys. I called the local officer straight away.
Within an hour the hallway was packed police, social workers, detectives. Sarah was flailing, slamming doors and windows.
You have no right! she shouted. Theyre my children!
The lead detective stayed cool. Then explain why these children match the missing siblings from five years ago, Kostya and Vera Samuels?
Ethan now Kostya clutched Poppys hand tightly. They huddled in the corner.
The woman shes not the boy began.
Silence! Sarah shrieked, lunging at them.
The officers moved fast, handcuffs snapping.
Svetlana Morgan, youre under arrest for kidnapping minors, the detective announced.
I watched her being led away, a hollow feeling settling over me. All those weeks of tension, fear, doubt, suddenly over?
Natasha! Vera the girl now called Vera rushed to me, hugging me tightly. You saved us! You really saved us!
I finally let the tears flow.
Two days later the kids were placed in a temporary care centre, but I visited them daily. Slowly they began to smile again, to speak confidently.
When their real parents arrived a thin woman with silverstreaked hair, Anna, and her tall, gentleeyed husband, Mark I couldnt hold back my emotions. Annas eyes welled up, Mark wrapped his arms around the children, whispering, We never lost hope. Never.
Sarahs story turned out far darker than Id imagined: a mental breakdown after losing her own children in an accident, followed by a desperate kidnapping of strangers, moving them to another town, living in terror.
Natasha, Anna said, holding my hands, you saved more than just the kids. You saved our whole family.
The children started recalling their past. Kostya had once been a chess prodigy, winning local tournaments. Vera loved drawing.
Look, thats you, she handed me a sketch. Youre like a guardian angel.
I often think back to that first evening when I sensed something was off. How easy it would have been to ignore, to walk away. So many people do that.
Six months later I got a letter. The kids wrote about their new school, how Mark drives Kostya to chess practice, how Veras enrolled in an art class. They no longer fear loud noises or darkness; theyve learned to trust again.
Inside the envelope was another drawing bright, sunny, a family picnicking, all smiling. In the corner, a note: Thank you for teaching us to be brave enough to be happy.
I hung that picture on my wall. Every time I look at it I remind myself that big kindness often starts with a small act of caring. You just have to notice, you just have to help.
Just last week I visited them. Vera was swinging on a swing, laughing loudly, just how kids should. Kostya was animatedly telling his dad about a chess move, hands flailing. Anna, her hair now free of grey, smiled as she watched them.
Natasha! Vera shouted, hopping off the swing. Were moving closer next week! Well see you more!
And I realised life was actually getting back on trackfor them, for me, for all of us.
Because sometimes you just need to believe that even the darkest story can have a light at the end. All it takes is a bit of courage and the first step.
