Hans, Has Your Little Sister Been raiding Our Fridge Again? How Lieselotte’s Visits Leave Us Penniless, and What Really Happens When Family Keeps Making Demands

Author Walton MerrittReading 11 minViews 3

Did your friend visit again? The fridge is always empty when shes been!

James, has your little Emily been around again? I asked my husband as I peered into the half-empty fridge. After her visits, theres never any food left for us.
Yes, she popped in, James admitted. She had another moan about not having any money. I couldnt just send my own sister away empty-handed.
Did you give Emily money as well?
A couple of hundred pounds, he confessed awkwardly. She told me Toms run into more trouble at work. Apparently, they cant even manage the rent.
Whod have thought it I still dont understand why she had to get married at twenty. Why didnt your mother ever try to stop her?
You know what Emilys like. Once she decides on something, theres no stopping her. Dont worry, shell get used to being independent eventually.
I sighed heavily. Independence is a good thing in theory, but so far, Emily only knew how to live off her family.

* * *

Toms still young himself, only just starting to earn a proper wage. He isnt in any rush to spoil his wife. Emily has no interest in working. Shes certain Tom should support her.
James and Emilys mother, Margaret, always took Emilys side. She could see the young couple struggling and was forever helping them out with money. And then shed insist James help too.
Shes still a young girl, she has to look her best, Margaret insisted. Emily hasnt found a job she likes yet, and Toms dreadfully tight with his money. Helping them is our duty.
So James did what he could, but I was getting tired of it all. For all the scrimping and saving we did, cutting back and living in a rented flat so we could buy our own place one day, a chunk of Jamess money kept slipping away to his sister.

* * *

One day I came home to find my mother-in-law and Emily in our lounge with James. They all stopped talking as soon as they saw me, which made it painfully clear what sort of conversation had just been happening.
Am I allowed to know whats going on? I have a feeling the family needs our help again, I said, trying to keep frustration from my voice.
Not at all, said Margaret with a laugh. This is a family matter and doesnt concern you.
I snorted in disbelief, retreating to the kitchen to prepare dinner. Five minutes later, Emily wandered in, bold as brass, flung open the fridge and declared:
Why is there nothing here? Havent you been shopping, Anna?
Yes, I have, I answered, getting irritated. But my salarys not in for two more days, so I just stocked up on the basics. If youre hungry, I can warm up some soup.
Ugh, I dont eat that. I never spend money on food I order pizza, sushi, and eat out with Tom in cafes.
And Toms wages stretch that far? I thought youre always skint.
I just ask Mum and James. Thats what families do help each other!
Shortly after, Margaret and Emily left. The moment the door was closed, I turned to my husband.
Why were they really here?
Mums planning to sell the holiday cottage. She wanted my advice. She wants to give all the money to Emily, since shes young and needs a good start in life.
Excuse me? Arent you at all bothered that its all going to your sister? Im against that. I dont think it will do her any good in the long run.
Anna, you shouldnt get involved, James said seriously. The cottage is my mothers. She can do as she likes.
He made it clear the discussion was over and left the room. He thought his mothers plan was right and took pride in being generous and self-sacrificing towards Emily.

* * *

Not long afterwards, Margaret sold the cottage. From the outset, I knew Emily would blow through the money. Trendy new clothes, dinners out, gadgets it all disappeared into her extravagant lifestyle.
Soon enough, the funds dried up and Emily went crying to her mother:
Ive run out of money again! I want to get a driving licence and buy a car! Is there nothing left you can sell? Some parents buy their children flats, help them out Mum, why are we so poor?
Margaret was utterly taken aback. Even she hadnt expected her daughter to get through the money quite so quickly. After a pause, she replied:
Emily, weve nothing more to sell. I hoped youd use the money wisely or save it. It really is time for you to find a job. You trained as a bookkeeper, didnt you? Try to get into a firm.
Im not sitting in an office staring at a computer all day! Itll ruin my eyes! My husband and you should support me. Im only twenty! What did you even have me for if youre just going to abandon me now? Thanks for nothing!
Hold on, Margaret tried to soothe her. Well think of something. What if we ask James for some money? We can say its for something important. Theyre saving for a flat, they must have something set aside.
You really think theyll give us anything? That Annas so stingy, she even scrimps on food. Thank goodness James always helps.
Right, well go and see them! Margaret said firmly. I know my son. He can never say no to his mother.
An hour later, Emily and Margaret showed up at our flat. It was obvious from their faces they werent bringing gifts, only demands.
James, we really need your help! Margaret burst out the second she was in the door. Only you can save us this time.
I braced myself. Theyre here to ask for money again, I thought. What else could it possibly be?
Whats happened now?
Emily wants to buy a car, but the cottage moneys already gone, Margaret admitted with an embarrassed smile. We wondered if you could help.
I couldnt believe it.
Sorry? The moneys already gone? That was a sizeable amount where did it all go? Emily, you really should be more careful with your spending!
Dont you dare lecture me! Emily snapped. Im not some dowdy nobody from a car boot sale! I want to eat out, get my nails done, and enjoy my youth not spend it pinching pennies!
Ever thought about working? I muttered sarcastically. I hear it helps with not constantly begging family for money.
James was desperate to keep the peace.
Wait, lets talk about this calmly. We cant afford to buy a car, but maybe we could spare a bit to help out.
Well done, my boy! Margaret beamed. I knew I could count on you.
What about asking me? I interjected, furious. Sorry, but Im not funding Emily. Shes got a husband let him sort her out. I wont give her another penny, and thats that!
James gave his mother an awkward look, then tried to reassure me:
Anna, this is our money, and I get a say too. Besides, Mum says its just a loan. Shell pay it back.
Of course I will! Or do you think Im a crook? Itll just help Emily out for now, then Ill give it all back.
I felt deeply uneasy, like Margaret thought I was heartless. But the only thing worse than being mistrusted would be to kiss our savings goodbye forever.
No, Im afraid we just cant help, I said with less conviction than before. Were saving for a home, and thats more important right now.
Come on Mum, lets go, Emily said, thoroughly annoyed. You see what theyre like? Only care about themselves, couldnt give a toss about us.
She swept out in a huff, and Margaret followed, but not before saying sharply to her son:
James, well be having words. Dont you think your wife has far too much say these days?
As soon as the door closed, James rounded on me.
How could you? Whats Mum supposed to think now that were tight-fisted? That money matters more than family?
Is she really in desperate need? I countered. When have they ever helped us? I very much doubt your family would contribute a penny to our home. Ive had enough of hearing about your hard-done-by little sister.
We made up a few days later or so I thought. But what I didnt realise was that James was ready to deceive me for their sake. He took some of our savings, which wed put aside for a home, and slipped it to his mum.
As soon as Margaret saw that envelope, she couldnt stop praising him:
Good boy! I knew Id raised you right. Dont worry, you help Emily now and one day shell help you. And, whatever you do, dont breathe a word to Anna. You two are young; youll save it again in no time.
* * *
One day I was scrolling through social media and recognised Emily in a shiny new hatchback, looking delighted behind the wheel. I turned to James, suspicious.
Did you know Emilys bought a car? Has Tom suddenly come into money? Shes always had a way of getting what she wants.
Yes, I know about the car, James said, not meeting my eye. We all chipped in, gave her a nice little surprise.
What do you mean, we all chipped in? Did you give her money? Why didnt you tell me?
James stayed silent. My heart sank. I ran to check the drawer where we kept our savings half the money was missing.
What have you done? I shrieked. Seriously, James? You handed over all that money to your sister? I cant believe you!
This time my usually mild-mannered husband lost it and yelled:
Its none of your business! Im head of the family here, and I made the decision. We have years to save up, but Emily needs that car now. And if youre going to treat my family like this, maybe Ill rethink wanting you as my wife!
Oh really? Well, Ive decided for myself: I no longer want a husband like you! Im going to my mothers, and I expect half our savings back!
I started throwing my things in a suitcase, devastated. Id hoped for an apology, or at least some recognition of what hed done, but James just sat in front of the telly like nothing had happened.
Is this it? Im leaving for real, James, I said, choking up at the front door.
Off you go then. And dont come back unless youre willing to change, he replied coldly.
I moved in with my mum, and a month later, filed for divorce. Its impossible to live with someone who doesnt respect you. And as for the money with a bit of legal pressure, I got my fair share back. Afterwards, I couldnt help but laugh about it all with my friends: Sometimes you have to break up just because of someone elses cheek!

I Made the Most Romantic Financial Mistake of My Life: I Built My Dream Home on Someone Else’s Land When I got married, my mother-in-law smiled and said: “Darling, why pay rent? There’s space above our house. Build yourselves a flat up there and live in peace.” Back then, it felt like a blessing. I believed her. I believed in love, too. My husband and I put every spare penny into our future home. We didn’t buy a car. We skipped holidays. Every bonus, every bit of savings went into materials, builders, windows, tiles. We built for five years. Slowly. With hope. From an empty shell, we created a real home. A kitchen like I’d dreamed of. Big windows. Walls painted in the colours I imagined for “our home.” I’d say with pride: “This is our home.” But life doesn’t ask if you’re ready. The marriage began to crack. Arguments. Shouting. Differences we just couldn’t fix. And on the day we decided to part ways, I learned the most expensive lesson of my life. As I packed my clothes, eyes full of tears, I looked at the walls I’d sanded and painted myself and said: “At least give me back some of what we put into this. Or pay me my share.” My mother-in-law—the same woman who once offered us “to build up there”—stood in the doorway, arms folded, with a cold stare: “There’s nothing here that’s yours. The house is mine. The deeds are mine. If you’re leaving, you leave with what you brought. Everything else stays.” That’s when I understood. Love doesn’t sign documents. Trust isn’t ownership. And hard work invested without your name on a title deed is simply lost. I stepped out onto the street with two suitcases and five years of life turned into concrete and walls that no longer belonged to me. I left without money. Without a home. But with clarity. The greatest losses aren’t the pounds you spend on pleasures. The greatest losses are what you invest in something that was never truly yours. Bricks don’t have feelings. Words vanish. But paperwork remains. And if I could say just one thing to every woman: No matter how much love there is, never build your future on someone else’s property. Because sometimes, what you save on rent can end up costing you your whole life.

A Belated Gift The bus jolted suddenly, and Mrs. Anna Peterson gripped the rail with both hands, feeling the rough plastic flex beneath her fingers. Her shopping bag knocked against her knees, apples shifting quietly inside. She stood near the exit, mentally counting the stops to her own. Soft static whispered in her earphones—a request from her granddaughter: “Granny, just in case I call.” The phone, heavy as a stone, lay zipped in her outer bag pocket. Still, Anna double-checked to be sure the zip was closed. She pictured the homecoming: set the shopping on the kitchen stool, change her shoes, hang up her coat and scarf just so. She’d unpack the groceries, start soup. Later, her son would stop by—he was on shift, no time to cook. The bus braked, the doors swung open. Anna Peterson made her way down the steps cautiously, gripping the rail, stepping out in front of her building. Children were racing across the court with a football; one girl nearly clipped her on a scooter, swerving at the last moment. The air by the front door was thick with cat food and cigarette smoke. Inside, she set down her bag, unwound her scarf, arranged the purchases: carrots with the vegetables, chicken in the fridge, bread in the tin. She filled a saucepan, palm over the base, hearing the kettle whir. The phone on the table vibrated. She wiped her hands on a towel and drew it closer. “Yes, Sasha?” she said, bending slightly as if it would bring her son’s voice nearer. “Hi Mum. How are you?” His voice was brisk; someone was speaking in the background. “All fine. Soup’s on. Will you be coming in?” “Yes, in a couple hours. Listen, Mum, we’ve got that fundraiser for the nursery again, for the group’s repair. Could you… you know, like last time?” Anna was already reaching for the drawer with her grey accounts notebook. “How much?” she asked. “Three hundred, if you can. Everyone’s chipping in, but… well, you know. It’s tough right now.” “I understand,” she said. “Alright, I’ll sort it.” “Thanks, Mum. You’re a gem. I’ll pop by later for it—and some of that soup of yours.” By the end of the call, the pot was nearly boiling. Anna dropped in chicken, salt, bay leaf. Seated at the table, she opened her notebook. Under “Pension” was the neatly written sum in biro, and underneath—utilities, medicines, “grandchildren,” “emergencies.” She wrote “nursery” and the amount, pausing as her pen hovered. The numbers edged together like they’d been nudged from below. Not as much left as she’d like—but not a disaster either. “We’ll manage,” she thought, closing the book. On the fridge, a calendar magnet dangled with the advert: “Village Arts Centre. Season passes. Classical, jazz, theatre. Pensioner discounts.” A gift from neighbour Tamara, who’d brought cake for her birthday. Anna had found herself lingering on that word, “passes,” whenever she waited for the kettle. She remembered long ago, before marriage, queueing with her friend for the Philharmonic on winter evenings. Tickets cost pennies, but came with hours in line, shivering and giggling. She hadn’t seen a real stage in years—grandkids now dragged her to Christmas pantos, all clatter and noise. This was different. She didn’t even know what concerts the centre held anymore, or who went. She peeled off the magnet, checked its back: a website she didn’t recognise, but a phone number—she replaced the magnet, mind circling. “Silly,” she told herself. “That money’s better put aside for Sophie’s coat; she’s outgrowing everything, and prices are up.” She turned to the stove, lowered the heat. At the table she didn’t reopen her accounts, but instead pulled out her “rainy day” envelope, stowed with careful notes and coins. Not much, but enough for an emergency, if need be. Her fingers sifted the notes as that magnetic advert nagged her. That evening her son came by. He hung his coat, collected soup containers. “Ooh, borscht!” he grinned. “Typical you, Mum. You eaten?” “I have, I have. Sit down, help yourself. The money’s ready,” she said, passing him the counted notes. “Mum, at least jot down what you’ve got left,” he chided, pocketing the cash. “You don’t want to run short.” “I do, always,” she replied. “Everything’s in order.” “You’re our family accountant,” he smiled. “By the way, you free to watch the kids Saturday? We’ve got shopping to do.” “Of course,” she said. “Not much else on here.” He nattered about work, new rules, his boss. Pulling on his shoes, he said, “Mum, do you ever buy yourself anything? It’s always for us, for the grandkids.” “I’ve got all I need,” she replied. “What more do I want?” He waved, “Alright, you know best. I’ll drop in next week.” When he left, quiet settled anew. Anna washed up, wiped the table, and glanced at the magnet. In her head, his voice echoed: “Do you get anything for yourself?” Morning found her staring at the ceiling for some time. No visitors were due; the day should have felt free, though her list teemed with chores. She did her physio as the doctor directed, boiled the kettle, set the tea to steep. As it bubbled, again the magnet drew her gaze. “Village Arts Centre. Season passes…” Anna picked up the phone, dialled the small-printed number. Her heart fluttered as the dial tone whirred. “Village Arts Centre, box office—how can I help?” “Hello,” Anna said, her mouth suddenly dry. “I’m calling about… your season passes?” “Yes, love. Which programme interests you?” “I… I’m not sure. Which ones do you have?” Patiently, the woman listed them: symphony or chamber music, romance evenings, children’s series. “Pensioners get a discount,” she added. “But the pass is a decent sum. Four concerts.” “And single tickets?” Anna asked. “Possible, but costs a little more per show. The season’s better value.” Anna pictured the sums in her notebooks, the envelope in her drawer. She asked the price—and the figure landed heavy in her thoughts. Doable, if she used up most of her “emergency” money. “Have a think, love. Passes go quickly,” the woman said. “Thank you,” Anna replied, hanging up. The kettle whistled. Anna poured her tea, sat, pulled her notebook close. She wrote on a blank page: “Season pass,” and alongside it: the price. Four concerts. She divided the amount in her head—less daunting monthly. She could buy fewer sweets, trim her hair herself. Faces of her grandchildren floated up. Ben wanted a new Lego. Molly, dance shoes. Her son sighed endlessly over mortgage repayments. And yet, this small, stubborn wish for herself felt nearly shameful. She closed the book undecided, scrubbed the floors, sorted the laundry. But the image of the hall stuck fast in her mind. After lunch, the intercom rang. Tamara, with a jar of homemade pickles. “Here you go,” she bustled in. “Now tell me, how are you?” “I’m alright,” Anna smiled. “Just… thinking.” “About?” Anna hesitated, embarrassed. “A concert,” she blurted. “There’s season passes on offer. I used to go, in my youth… It’s quite expensive.” Tamara raised her eyebrows. “What are you asking me for? It’s for you. If you want, go.” “But the money—” Anna began. “Money, money,” Tamara waved. “Haven’t you spent your whole life on your family? Gave your son a loan, got the grandkids presents. You’ve worn the same coat since God-knows-when. Of course you can buy yourself music, for once.” “Not for once; I did, before—” Anna protested. “That was when ice cream was tuppence,” Tamara snorted. “It’s different now. Your money—spend it how you like.” “They’ll only say it’s foolish,” Anna whispered. “That it should go on the kids.” “So don’t tell them,” Tamara shrugged. “Say you were at the surgery. Or—no, why hide? You’re not a child.” Anna flinched at that: not a child. She was half insulted, half ashamed. “I go to the surgery plenty,” Anna said quietly. “But it’s daunting—the walk, the stairs, my heart—” “There’s a lift,” Tamara dismissed. “And you’ll be sitting, not dancing! I went to the theatre last month, didn’t die of it—left with a year’s memories.” After Tamara left, Anna picked up the phone and dialled: “I’d like to book a season pass—for the romance evenings, please.” She was told to come in with her ID. She wrote down the address and pinned it by magnet to the fridge, her heart racing. That night her daughter-in-law called: “Saturday—are you sure you can watch the little ones?” “Yes, absolutely,” Anna replied. “Thank you—could we bring you something? Tea? New towels?” “No thanks,” said Anna. “I’ve all I need.” After hanging up, Anna eyed the note on the fridge. The box office closed at six; she’d need to set out early. That night Anna dreamed of the concert hall: plush seats, spotlights, the hush of a crowd. She sat halfway down, programme in hand, hardly daring to move lest she bother others. She woke the next morning tense. “Why did I start all this—so much fuss,” she thought. But the note on the fridge didn’t vanish. After breakfast, she dressed in her best coat, shook it free of dust, picked a warm scarf, her comfortable shoes. She packed her passport, wallet, glasses, blood pressure tablets, a small bottle of water. She sat on the hall stool before leaving, checking herself for dizziness, trembling. “Right, I’ll be fine,” she told herself, shutting the door. The bus was busy, but a young lad gave up his seat. Anna thanked him and sat by the window, clutching her handbag. The Arts Centre was two stops from the centre—pillared, poster-lined, the scent of dust and polish inside. The box office woman greeted her, took her ID, and explained options. Pensioner discount—still a hefty sum, but good seats remained. Anna listened as the explanation went over her head, just nodded. When asked for the money, her hand shook slightly. She counted out the notes, nearly saying she’d changed her mind, but the person behind her was fidgeting, and she handed the cash over. “Here’s your pass, love. First concert’s in a fortnight. Come early to find your seat.” The pass itself was beautiful: photograph of the hall on the front, neatly printed dates inside. Anna slipped it carefully into her bag, with her passport and her battered recipe book. She sat outside on the bench for a moment, catching her breath, as teenagers nearby debated bands she’d never heard of. “Well,” Anna thought, “I’ve done it. No going back now.” Two weeks flew in a blur of daily tasks—grandkids ill, soup on, thermometer checks. Her son fetched groceries, took home Tupperware. Several times Anna almost told him about the pass, but always changed topic. The morning of the first concert, she woke early, jittery as before an exam. She prepped supper, rang her son: “I won’t be home this evening. If you need me, call early.” “Where are you off to?” he asked. She hesitated—she hated to lie. “The Arts Centre,” she said. “A concert.” A pause. “Seriously, Mum? You know things are tight. That money could have—” “I know,” she replied, firmly. “But it’s my money.” He sighed. “Alright, yes, it’s yours. Just don’t complain if you run short later. And wrap up warm, alright? At your age—” “Even at my age, I can sit in a hall and listen to music,” she said. “I’m not climbing Everest.” A second sigh, softer. “Fine. Just let me know you’re home safe?” “I will.” She sat for a long while, hands shaking. What she’d done felt brazen, a little shameful. She didn’t care to retreat. In the evening she put on her best dress, navy blue with a neat collar; ladder-free tights, low-heeled shoes. She brushed her hair extra carefully. Dusk was falling as she stepped out, reflected shopfront lights, crowds at the bus stop. She hugged her bag with the pass, passport, handkerchief, tablets. The bus was packed; someone stepped on her foot and murmured an apology. She counted stops, squeezed through at hers. Outside the Arts Centre people milled—older couples, middle-aged women, even a few students. Anna felt nerves ease a little. She wasn’t the eldest. She checked her coat, took her ticket, stood unsure. The arrow for “Auditorium” pointed onwards. She followed, steadying herself on the rail. The hall was half-dark, lights twinkling over the rows. A lady checked her ticket: “Row six, seat nine, love.” Anna edged along, apologising as people stood for her. She sat, bag on knees, heart loud but now with anticipation. People murmured, flipped through programmes. Anna did likewise, tracing the song titles. At the bottom, the name of a composer she’d listened to in wartime crackled from old radios. The lights dimmed further, the host stepped out. Anna half-heard the words, lost in the quiet thrill of being here, not just in her kitchen. When the first notes sounded, a shiver prickled up her back. The singer’s voice was low, husky, singing of love, parting, journeys—suddenly close to Anna’s own memories: another hall, another city, another life. She did not cry, but sat tightly holding her bag, listening. Slowly, muscles uncoiled, breathing evened. Letting the music fill her, life seemed, for a time, not just a string of duties and economy. During the interval, her legs ached; she walked the foyer, saw people discussing the programme, nibbling cakes, sipping tea. Anna bought herself a tiny chocolate, something she’d once considered an extravagance. “Tastes good,” she said aloud. A smart woman of similar age smiled at her. “Lovely concert, isn’t it?” “Yes,” Anna answered. “It’s been a long time.” They compared notes, chatted about the singer. Then the bell; everybody filed back. The second half felt shorter. Anna no longer dwelt on the cost, simply listened. When the concert ended, applause thundered. Anna clapped until her palms stung. Outside, the air was brisk. She made her way to the bus feeling a quiet warmth—not elation, nor pride, just a deep sense of having done something for herself at last. At home she phoned her son. “Home safe,” she reported. “It was lovely.” He asked if she was cold. She said, “No, it was… just right.” He hesitated, then said, “I’m glad if it made you happy, Mum. Just—don’t go mad with the spending! We still need to save, after all.” “I know,” she replied. “But I’ve the pass already—three concerts left.” “Three?” he echoed, surprised. “Well, as you’ve paid, you might as well go. Take care, though.” She hung up, slipped off her coat, set down her bag. In the kitchen, tea steaming, she laid out her concert pass, ran a finger along its edge, and copied the dates neatly into the paper calendar—circling each one. Next week, when her son again asked for a loan, she checked her notebook and said, “I can only give you half. The rest I’ll need.” “For what?” he asked automatically. Looking at his tired face, the dark rings beneath his eyes, Anna replied gently, “For myself. There are things I need, too.” He made to protest, but stopped. “Alright, Mum. If you say so.” That evening, alone, Anna fetched down the old family album. There she was: a young woman, pale frock in front of a concert hall, clutching a programme, coy smile. She studied the old face, tried to reconcile it with the mirror’s. Slipped the album away. On the fridge she pinned another note: “Next concert—15th.” Underneath, “Leave home early.” Her life didn’t change overnight. She still made soup, scrubbed floors, visited the surgery, sat with grandchildren. Her son still borrowed, and she helped, as she could. But now, threaded through the days, was a sense of time reserved for herself, small plans to keep, justified to no one. Sometimes, passing the fridge, she’d touch the date on the note—a quiet, stubborn reminder: I am alive, and I am allowed to want. One evening, flicking through the local paper, Anna found an advert for free English classes for seniors at the library—book early, the notice read. She tore out the slip, tucked it by her concert pass. Made her tea, debated if this was too bold. “I’ll finish my concerts first,” Anna decided. “Then we’ll see.” She slipped the paper into her notebook, but the thought of learning again didn’t seem impossible anymore. At bedtime, she drew her curtains, watched as streetlights shone outside—boys in tracksuits, a lonely football. Standing in the window’s glow, Anna felt a calm spread in her chest. Life ticked on, full of chores and limitations, but somewhere in the cracks was space for four evenings in the concert hall—and maybe, soon, a handful of unfamiliar words. She clicked off the kitchen light and settled into bed, smoothing her quilt. Tomorrow would be another ordinary day: shopping, calls, cooking. But the calendar bore a circle now—a small one, quietly shifting everything, whether anyone else noticed or not.

The Bench in the Courtyard Victor Stevens stepped out into the courtyard just after one. His temples were throbbing—he’d finished off the last of the salads yesterday, and spent the morning packing away Christmas decorations. The house felt too quiet. He pulled on his hat, shoved his phone in his pocket, and headed downstairs, habitually gripping the rail as he went. On a January afternoon, the courtyard seemed like a set from a play: cleared walkways, untouched drifts of snow, not a soul in sight. Victor Stevens brushed off the bench by the second entrance. The snow fell away softly from the wooden slats. This was a good spot for thinking, especially when it was deserted—you could sit for five minutes and head home again. “Mind some company?” a man’s voice asked. Victor turned his head. Tall, navy jacket, about fifty-five. The face was vaguely familiar. “There’s plenty of room,” he replied, sliding over. “Which flat are you in?” “Forty-three, second floor. Just moved in three weeks ago. Michael.” “Victor Stevens,” he said, shaking the offered hand automatically. “Welcome to our quiet corner.” Michael pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Is it alright if I smoke?” “Go right ahead.” Victor hadn’t smoked in ten years, but the whiff of tobacco oddly reminded him of the newspaper office where he’d spent most of his life. He caught himself wanting to inhale the scent, then pushed the urge aside. “How long have you lived here?” Michael asked. “Since ‘87. The whole estate had just gone up back then.” “I used to work nearby at the Metalworkers’ Community Centre. As a sound engineer.” Victor started. “For Valery Zakharov?” “That’s the one! How do you…” “I wrote a feature on him. Back in ‘89, when we put on that anniversary concert. Remember, when ‘August’ played?” “I could go through that concert start to finish!” Michael grinned. “We dragged in this giant speaker, the power supply was sparking…” The conversation flowed on its own. Names and stories resurfaced—some funny, some bittersweet. Victor found himself thinking he really ought to head back, but there was always another twist: musicians, equipment, backstage secrets. He’d long since fallen out of the habit of long talks. In recent years at the paper he’d only written urgent stories, and after retirement he’d withdrawn completely. He’d convinced himself it was easier not to depend on or get close to anyone. But now, something inside him felt as if it was thawing. “You know,” Michael stubbed out his third cigarette, “I’ve got all the archives at home. Posters, photos. Concert tapes I recorded myself. If you fancy having a look…” Why would I do that, Victor wondered. Then he’d have to socialise, his usual routine would get upended. And what would he really see that’s new? “I think I would,” he replied. “When would suit?” “Tomorrow’s fine. Around five? I’ll be back from work by then.” “Let’s do it,” Victor took out his phone and opened his contacts. “I’ll give you my number. If anything changes, we’ll sort it out.” That night he couldn’t sleep, replaying the conversation and recalling details from old times. More than once, he reached for his phone—to cancel, to make an excuse. But he didn’t. The next morning, he woke to the phone ringing. On the screen: ‘Michael, neighbour.’ “Not having second thoughts, are you?” Michael’s voice sounded slightly unsure. “No,” Victor replied. “I’ll be there at five.”