October 15th
This morning’s bustle near Oxford Street held its own rhythm: heels clattering on paving stones, car horns blaring through traffic, the distant screech of an Underground train slicing through autumn air. I moved like a ghost in faded blue cleaner’s overalls, hand clenched round a steaming paper cup. Seven months pregnant, bone-tired and barely holding on, yet I still showed up. Still tried.
As always, I cut through the grimy underpass—weaving past flower carts and street vendors around homeless souls’ scattered belongings. Most folk averted their eyes. I couldn’t. Not after all I’d endured.
That’s when I spotted him again.
Slumped against the concrete, half-hidden in shadow: that bloke I’d seen before. Wiry curls matted over his brow, a crutch across his lap, tatty flat cap upturned for coins. Different from the rest, though. No shouting. No begging. Just sitting there… watching.
I hesitated, then approached. Dug a crumpled fiver from my coat—yesterday’s tip—and held it out. “Get something warm, yeah?” Softly. “Ain’t much.”
He didn’t take it. Not straight off.
Instead, his eyes dropped to my bump. “Always this kind?” Voice low and gravelly.
Shrugged. “Been on both sides of the kerb, haven’t I?”
A flicker of a smile. He took the note.
But when our fingers brushed, something shifted in his eyes. Sharp. Like recognition. Or shame.
“Oi,” he said abruptly, scanning the passers-by. “You coming through tomorrow?”
Blinked. “Always do.”
He leant forward, just inches. “Might
Little did I know then that his hushed warning would unravel a secret about my own past, altering everything I thought I knew.
