**The Summer in the Basement**
It started with a crash. The kind that leaves your ears ringing—like a lorry had plowed straight into the side of the house at the corner of Bridge Street. Emily dropped the bowl of mince, glass shattering across the tiles, and the cat darted under the table as if shot from a catapult. Then came the silence. Not the usual kind, alive with street noise and neighbours’ footsteps, but dead and hollow, like the old wartime cellars. Even the fridge fell quiet. Even the clock on the wall seemed to hold its breath.
Emily froze, arms elbow-deep in mince, and for a second, forgot how to breathe. Only when her heart stopped clawing at her throat did she realise—no earthquake, no explosion, no car crash. It was just old Mr. Richard Whitmore from the seventh floor again. Elderly, solitary, odd. She’d noticed lately how he swayed when he walked, like an empty vase teetering on a shelf.
Without thinking, she bolted up the stairs, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood. Her heart thudded like a drum. The seventh floor—just above her. He’d lived there for years, since the nineties at least. After his wife died, he became a ghost—moving slowly, barely speaking. Only the crackle of old records spun in his flat in the mornings. And the smell—something medicinal, like ointment or balm. Sometimes he’d sit on the balcony in his dressing gown, staring down as if waiting for someone to climb the steps.
They hardly ever greeted each other. She out of indifference; he as if he didn’t even see her. In their building, nobody knew each other beyond footsteps, door creaks, and cooking smells. Not by name. Not by voice.
The door was ajar. She knew it would be. Mr. Whitmore always left it that way—just in case. She burst in, and there it was, just as she’d feared.
He lay in the hallway, in a washed-out flannel shirt and jogging bottoms. His cane and a shattered glass lay beside him. His face was grey, lips pressed into a thin line, sweat beading on his forehead.
“Mr. Whitmore!” Emily dropped to her knees. “Can you hear me?”
His eyes fluttered open weakly. His breathing was laboured, as if he’d been climbing a hill.
“It’s me—Emily. From the sixth floor. I’ll call an ambulance—”
“No.” His voice was hoarse. “Just… help me up.”
“Are you sure? Does anything hurt? Your arm? Leg?”
“No. Just… weak. Bring the chair. The white one. From the bathroom.”
“Shouldn’t we call a doctor?”
He looked at her sharply. “No. Enough humiliation. At least spare me the neighbours seeing an old man sprawled in the dust.”
She brought the chair. He leaned on her, on his cane, rising slowly, with effort, but on his own. When he sat, he exhaled as if pushing out all his shame.
“Thank you… You didn’t have to—”
“I know.” She paused. “But I’ll stay. A little while.”
He didn’t argue.
And she stayed.
For a day. Then a week. Then all summer.
She mopped floors, made porridge, took out the bins. He hardly spoke. Sometimes he just stared out the window, as if waiting for someone long gone. Other times, he dozed in his armchair, cane resting against his knees, guarding memories.
Emily tiptoed through his flat like it was a museum. Going home felt foreign—as if she’d already moved upstairs. Her own flat seemed loaned out without her permission.
She’d been let go in the spring. Downsizing. The accounts department dissolved. Job hunting was pointless—small towns don’t have vacancies. Her husband had vanished fifteen years ago—drank himself into oblivion, then disappeared. Her son was in the army, far away. Letters came sporadically. And really, nobody needed her. She was used to that. Used to silence. Used to loneliness like old furniture—creaky but irreplaceable.
And then—him.
Mr. Whitmore. His flat. His records. His slow, steady breathing.
After a week, he started talking. First about music. Then the war. Then his wife—Mary. Met her in Manchester. She sang in a choir. He was in uniform.
“She said I looked like a moth with epaulettes. I was cross. Then I couldn’t let go. Years together—kids, cottages, pension books. Then her heart gave out. And I stayed.”
He talked. She listened. Sometimes he’d snap—grabbing the spoon from her hand—”Not like that! Mary did it different!”—then fall quiet. She’d storm out. But she always came back.
Because she knew—he was waiting.
Or maybe she was too.
One day he said, “Your voice shakes when you’re angry. Right at the end—like you’re out of breath. Mary was like that. Always pretending she was tough. Crumbling inside.”
She didn’t answer. Because it was true.
By August, he faded. Barely ate. Sipped water. Sat wrapped in a blanket, staring at the corner of the room as if watching for someone’s arrival.
He asked, “Fetch the album. Behind the books. Find the page with the rose.”
She did. Tucked between photos—a faded postcard. Looped, feminine handwriting.
*Richard, don’t forget the geraniums. And take the batteries out of the telly remote—they’ll go flat.*
He listened—not to the words, but her voice. Not closing his eyes—but his soul.
He slept. And never woke.
His son arrived in September. Emily met him at the door. Plain T-shirt, tired but calm face.
“You were with him?”
“All summer,” she said.
He hugged her. Gently. No words.
“You… what were you to him?”
She meant to say “neighbour.” Or “just helped out.”
But instead, she breathed, “I was there.”
He nodded.
And that was enough.
**Lesson:** Sometimes the people we least expect become the ones we can’t bear to leave. Even in silence, they remind us we’re not alone.
