La vida

The Nuisance Next Door “Don’t you dare touch my spectacles!” shrieked my ex-friend. “Mind your own eyes! Think I don’t see who you’re ogling?” “Are you actually jealous?” wondered Tamara Brown. “Now I see who’s caught your fancy! I know what I’ll get you for Christmas—a lip-zipping machine!” “Why not keep it for yourself?” retorted Lynda. “Or maybe there’s no machine that could handle those lips of yours? Think I don’t see?” Old Mrs. Tamara swung her legs off the battered bed and made her way to her home altar to read her morning prayer. She wouldn’t have called herself particularly religious: there was definitely something out there, someone calling the shots. But who? That was anyone’s guess. This driving power went by many names: fate, the universe, and of course, the Good Lord! Yes, a kindly old gentleman with a white beard and a halo, sitting on his cloud and keeping an eye on everyone here on Earth. Besides, Tamara was deep into her autumn years, approaching seventy. And at that age, best not to quarrel with the Almighty. After all, if He doesn’t exist, believers lose nothing. But if He does, unbelievers lose everything. At the end of her morning prayers, Tamara always added a few words of her own—why not? Ritual complete, and her soul at ease—it was time to face another day. Tamara Brown’s life was troubled by two things. And no, not the usual suspects—roads and fools—no, those problems were old news. Hers were: her neighbour Lynda, and her own grandchildren. With the grandkids, fair enough: today’s youth can be a pain. But at least they had parents—let them deal with it! But Lynda was an entirely different breed of headache: a neighbour who could get on anyone’s last nerve. Only in films do catfights between old dames look sweet; in reality, it’s something else entirely. Especially when you’re being picked on for no rhyme or reason. And then there was her old mate, Peter “Moped Pete”. His full Sunday name was Peter Ernest Champion. (It’s a real surname!) His nickname was easy enough to figure out: in his youth, Pete Champion—what a combo—was mad about his moped. Or, as cheeky young Pete used to call it, his “mopeddy”. The name stuck, and long after Pete’s rusty old moped gathered dust in the shed, the nickname clung to him—ah, the joys of country life! They used to be close friends: “Mopeddy” and his wife Nina, Tamara and her husband. But their partners had long since taken up residence in the local cemetery. Still, Tamara kept up with Mopeddy, having known him since school, and a better friend than Pete was hard to find. Back in their schooldays, they were an inseparable trio: Tamara, Pete, and Lynda—just pure old-fashioned friendship, without a hint of anything else. They went everywhere together: Pete in the middle, the two ladies on each arm, like a teacup with two handles. There are special cups like that—so they never slip from your grasp! Over the years, the friendship changed. Or rather, it ended—thanks mainly to Lynda, who first grew cold, then outright hostile after her husband’s passing. It was like that cartoon: I’ve started noticing, it’s as if someone’s swapped her out… Something in Lynda broke. She’d grown mean and spiteful—maybe it happens to some. Ladies can be like that. Gents too. And there was plenty to envy. First, despite her age, Tamara stayed trim while Lynda had grown… let’s say, well-rounded. “Madam, where shall we find your waist?” Not flattering by comparison. Second, their mutual school friend recently favoured quick-witted Tamara with more attention than Lynda. They’d share conspiratorial laughs and seemed practically glued at the head. With Lynda, conversation was terse and chilly. Besides, Pete popped by Tamara’s much more often, rarely needing much encouragement. Well, maybe she wasn’t as clever as witty Tamara—or as funny! Pete always loved a good laugh. There’s a fine old English idiom for Lynda’s new behaviour: nit-picking. She’d become a champion of petty grievances. First, she complained the loo in Tamara’s garden smelled awful. — “Your loo’s ponging again!” called Lynda. — “It’s stood there for years—you only just noticed?” said Tamara, biting back with, “Ah yes—your cataract surgery was free! You get what you pay for!” — “Don’t you dare touch my spectacles!” screamed her former friend. “You look after your own eyes! Think I don’t see who you’re staring at?” —“Are you jealous or something?” asked Tamara. “Well, I know just what to get you for Christmas: a lip-zipping machine!” —“Keep it for yourself!” Lynda fired back. “Or maybe nothing could fix those lips! Think I don’t see?” And on, and on… Pete suggested filling in the outside loo and having one built in the house. Tamara’s children helped fund it, and the family friend Pete did the digging. Problem solved—or so one would hope. But no! It was the pear tree branches next—supposedly damaged by Tamara’s grandchildren. —“They must’ve thought it was ours!” Tamara tried to explain. Though she wasn’t convinced—nothing looked robbed to her. “Look, your hens peck through my veg patch, and I never complain!” —“Chickens are stupid creatures—nothing but egg-layers,” shot back Lynda. “Grandma, you ought to mind the grandchildren, not giggle with gents all day!” So it went. The grandkids got a scolding; pear season came and went; and then Lynda found “damage” to the branches. —“Where? Show me!” asked Tamara. She couldn’t see a thing, but Lynda jabbed a knobbly finger vaguely in their direction. Old Peter, always diplomatic, suggested lopping off the branches that hung over Tamara’s fence. —“She’ll only shout again!” sighed Tamara. —“Wanna bet?” grinned Pete. “I’ll back you up!” Just as predicted, Lynda huffed but stayed silent as Pete did the sawing. Peace? Not quite. Tamara soon had her own vexation: Lynda’s new breed of chickens were tearing up her veg patch. She politely asked Lynda to keep them in check. Lynda just sneered, “What are you gonna do about it?” Now, Tamara was too kind for drastic measures—like roasting an offending hen. Instead, clever Pete suggested the latest online hack: plant a few eggs on the veg patch overnight, then collect them in the morning as proof. It worked: the next morning, Lynda’s jaw dropped as Tamara collected a bowlful of “garden-fresh eggs”. The hens never reappeared. Maybe now they could be friends again? Not a chance. Now the neighbour complained about the smoke and smell from Tamara’s summer kitchen. —“Since when do you notice? Never bothered you before. Maybe the whiff of roast beef bothers me too! Ever think of that, Miss Vegetarian?” At last, Tamara’s patience snapped. Lynda, quite simply, “had gone off the rails”—another wonderful English phrase. Over tea with Pete, Tamara joked, “Maybe she should be sent off for scientific research—she’ll end up devouring me whole!” —”She’d choke on you! And I’d never let it happen,” Pete reassured her. “But I’ve got a better idea!” A few days later, Tamara heard Pete calling out: “Tammy, Tammy, come outside!” There he was, beaming, on his newly mended vintage moped—Pete and his Mopeddy! —“You know why I’ve been so glum?” he grinned. “My moped’s been broken all this time!” —“Hop on, beautiful, let’s go for a ride! Let’s relive our youth!” And hop on she did! After all, old age has now been officially abolished by Parliament: everyone’s an active pensioner at 65+! Tamara rode off, quite literally, into her new life. Soon, she became Mrs. Champion herself: Peter Ernest Champion popped the question! Old puzzle pieces fell into place, and Tamara moved in with her husband. And Lynda? Well, she stayed behind—a lonely, chubby, bitter old biddy. Now, if that’s not a reason for a new bout of jealousy, what is? With no one left to squabble with, Lynda had to stew alone, her toxic sniping bottled up inside. No more sparring partners… So hang on tight, Tammy, and don’t step out of the house! Who knows what else the village will bring? Life here is a soap opera set to music. All that fuss about the loo for nothing…

Annoying Neighbour Dont you dare touch my spectacles! bellowed my former friend. Watch your own eyes, will you!

La vida

010

Queueing with Purpose: The Art of Patience and Fairness in British Culture

Samuel Peters woke before the alarm on his battered Nokia, the tiny screen still dark. He still set the

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Kostik Sat in His Wheelchair, Gazing Out Through the Dusty Windows at the Street Beyond

Conrad Cavendish sat in his wheelchair, staring through the dustcaked panes at the world beyond.

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When the Door Closed Behind Svetlana Arkadyeva, Only Three Remained in the Office — Sophia, Her Young Daughter, and the Tall Man in the Tailored Suit.

When the door shut behind Ms. Victoria Hart, only three people remained in the interview room Emma Clarke

La vida

Queueing with Purpose: The Art of Patience and Fairness in British Culture

Samuel Peters woke before the alarm on his battered Nokia, the tiny screen still dark. He still set the

La vida

021

My Wife Packed Her Bags and Vanished Without a Trace: When Family Secrets, Betrayal, and the Birth of Our Son Tore Everything Apart

His wife packed her bags and vanished without a trace Stop pretending youre so saintly. Itll all work out.

La vida

Peter said it then calmly, almost tenderly:

Peter Whitaker said calmly, almost as if he were caring for me: Why should you work, love? I earn enough.

La vida

No One’s Home Sergey woke up before his alarm, as always, at half past six. The flat was quiet, only the low murmur of the fridge coming from the kitchen. He lay there for a minute, listening to the sound, and reached for his glasses on the windowsill. Outside, dawn hovered, a few cars whispering across the wet tarmac. He used to get ready for work at this time. He’d get up, go to the bathroom, listen to the radio come on in the neighbour’s flat through the wall. Now the neighbour still turned on the radio, but Sergey just lay there, wondering what he’d do today. Officially, he’d been retired three years, but out of habit, he still lived to a schedule. He got up, pulled on his joggers, and walked to the kitchen. Set the kettle boiling, took a slice of yesterday’s bread from the breadbin. While the water was heating, he went to the window. Seventh floor, concrete tower, a courtyard with a children’s playground. His old Lada Niva sat down below, covered in a thin layer of dust. He idly noted he ought to pop by the garage, check if the roof was leaking. The garage was three bus stops away, in a little co-op. He used to spend half his weekends there, fiddling with the car, changing the oil, talking petrol prices and football with the blokes. Nowadays, everything was easier: service stations, tyre fitters, shops you could order from with a couple of clicks. But he’d held onto the garage. It stored his tools, spare tyres, boxes of wire, planks—the “bits and pieces,” as he called them. And then there was the allotment. A wooden cottage in a garden village out of town—narrow porch, two rooms, a tiny kitchen. When Sergei shut his eyes, he saw the old boards, the cracks in the floor, heard rain drumming on the roof. The cottage had come from his wife’s parents twenty years ago. Back then, most weekends, they’d head out with the kids. Digging up beds, frying potatoes, blasting a tape player on a kitchen stool. His wife had been gone for four years. The kids had grown up, gone off to their own flats, started families. The cottage and the garage stayed with him. They seemed to anchor him to something familiar. Here was the flat. The cottage. The garage. Everything in its place, everything made sense. The kettle whistled. Sergey brewed tea, sat at the table. On the chair opposite, yesterday’s folded jumper. He ate his sandwich, gazed at the jumper and thought about last night’s conversation. Last night, the kids had come round. His son and daughter-in-law, their young boy—his grandson. His daughter and her husband. They’d had tea, discussed holiday plans. Then, as usual lately, the conversation turned to money. The son complained about the mortgage, the interest piling up. His daughter moaned about nursery fees, after-school clubs, the cost of clothes. Sergey nodded. He remembered counting pennies to payday himself, back when he had nothing—no cottage, no garage. Just a rented room and hope. Then his son, looking awkward, said: “Dad, we’ve been talking, me and Anya. And Katya, too. Maybe you should think of selling something? The cottage, say. Or the garage. You hardly ever go anymore.” He brushed it off, changed the subject. But the words circled in his head all night—“hardly ever go.” He finished his sandwich, drained his tea, washed up. Checked the time: eight o’clock. He decided to go to the cottage today. Better check how it had weathered the winter. And prove something to himself at the same time. He dressed warmly, took the keys to the cottage and garage from the hall, jacket pocketed them. Paused in the corridor, studying his reflection in the old frame: a man with greying hair, tired eyes, but still strong. Not yet an old man. He straightened his collar and left. He stopped by the garage first for some tools. The lock creaked, the door gave with familiar resistance. Inside, the smell of dust, petrol, old rags. Shelves lined with jars of bolts, boxes of odd wires, an old tape marked in felt-tip. A spider’s web by the ceiling. Sergey glanced over the shelves. The jack he’d bought for his first car. Planks he’d meant to make into a bench for the cottage—never did, but the wood still waited. He grabbed his tool chest, a few plastic cans, locked the garage and set off. The drive out of town took an hour. Grubby snow lingered at the road’s edge, black earth peeking through. The garden village was still, too early for the crowds. The familiar warden in her puffa jacket nodded at him at the gate. The holiday cottage greeted him with its usual off-season stillness. Wooden fence, sagging gate. He let himself in, crunched through last year’s leaves up the narrow path. The cottage smelt of must and wood. Sergey opened the windows wide. Took the old bedspread off the bed, shook it out. In the little kitchen, an enamel pot stood on the table, once used for stewing fruit. A bunch of keys hung by the door, including the shed key for the garden tools. He walked the place, ran a hand down the walls, door handles. In the room where the kids once slept, the bunk bed was still there. On the top bunk, a teddy bear with a taped-on ear. Sergey remembered his son crying over that ear, and he, unable to find glue, had fixed it with tape. He walked the plot. The snow had mostly melted, dark, wet beds showing through. In the far corner, the rusted barbecue. He remembered grilling there, sitting on the porch with his wife, tea in glass mugs, laughter drifting from another garden. Sergey sighed, set to work. Cleared the path, steadied a loose porch board, checked the shed roof. Found an old plastic chair in the shed, brought it outside, sat. The sun rose higher, warming the air. Checking his phone, he saw calls from his son the night before. His daughter messaged: “We need to sit down soon and talk this through, Dad. We’re not against the cottage; let’s just be reasonable,” she’d written. Reasonable. That word surfaced all the time now. Reasonable meant money shouldn’t just sit idle. Reasonable meant pensioners shouldn’t wear themselves out with gardens and garages. Reasonable meant helping the young while he still could. He understood them, honestly, he did. But sitting in that plastic chair, hearing a distant dog bark, water drip from the roof, all the “reasonable” faded. Here, it wasn’t about logic. Sergey stood, walked the plot again, locked up, put the heavy padlock on the cottage. Back in the car, he headed for town. By lunchtime he was home. Jacket off, dropped his tool bag in the hall. Flicked the kettle on, only then noticing a note on the table: “Dad, we’ll stop by this evening to chat. S.” He sat down, hands flat on the table. So tonight then. Tonight they’d have the real talk, no dodging. That evening they arrived, the three of them—son with wife, daughter. The grandson was with his other gran. Sergey let them in, exchanged hellos. Son shed his shoes, hung his coat up by the hook, automatically, just as he’d done as a child. In the kitchen, they sat, Sergey set out tea, biscuits, sweets. No one touched a thing. They chatted about small stuff for a while: grandson, work, the traffic. Then daughter glanced at her brother, who nodded. She said, “Dad, let’s talk properly now. We don’t want to pressure you, but—we’ve all got to decide what’s next.” Sergey felt a knot tighten inside. He nodded: “Go on.” The son started: “Look, there’s the flat, the cottage, and the garage. The flat’s off-limits, obviously. We won’t touch that. But with the cottage—you keep saying it’s hard work, the beds, the roof, the fence. You throw money at it every year.” “I was there today,” Sergey said quietly. “It’s fine.” “Well, sure, for now,” daughter-in-law butted in. “But what about in five years, ten? You’re not going to be around forever. Sorry, but we have to think about it.” Sergey looked away. The words about not being “around forever” cut deeper than she probably meant. His daughter spoke gently: “We’re not saying you should give everything up. We think, if you sell the cottage and the garage, split the money up—some for you for comfort, the rest between me and Sasha. We could pay off a chunk of the mortgage. You always said you wanted to help us.” He really had said that—right after he’d retired but was still working contracts. Back then, he thought he’d stay strong forever, always able to chip in. “I help already,” he said. “Babysit the grandson, do a shop for you.” The son gave a strained smile: “Dad, it’s not the same. We need an actual lump sum to give us breathing space. You’ve seen the interest rates. We’re not asking for everything, just—well, the unused assets.” The word “assets” felt cold in his kitchen. Sergey felt as if a wall of numbers, charts, and loan agreements was wedging itself between them. He reached for his cup, took a sip of cold tea. “To you it’s assets,” he said, slowly. “To me, it’s…” He trailed off. Didn’t want to sound grandiose. “It’s bits of my life,” he settled on. “I built that garage myself. With my dad, when he was alive. We hauled every brick. The cottage—my kids grew up there. You.” Daughter dropped her eyes. Son was quiet a moment, gentler: “We get that, honestly. But you hardly go now. It’s all sitting empty. One man can’t keep up.” “I was there today,” Sergey said again. “All good.” “Today,” the son said. “When before that? Last autumn? Seriously, Dad.” The silence dragged. In the next room, the clock ticked. Sergey suddenly saw them all at the kitchen table, talking about his old age like some project: asset management, redistribution. “Alright,” he said. “What exactly are you proposing?” Son perked up; you could tell they’d hashed this out already. “We found an estate agent—she reckons the cottage could fetch a decent bit. The garage too. We’ll handle the viewings, the paperwork, everything. All you’d need to do is sign a power of attorney.” “And the flat?” Sergey asked. “We leave that alone,” daughter said quickly. “That’s your home.” He nodded. The word “home” felt strange. Was home just these walls? Or the cottage too? The garage, with all the hours spent swearing over a jammed bolt but feeling needed? He stood up, walked to the window. The courtyard lights were coming on. The view looked much as it had twenty years ago. Only the cars had changed; the kids on the playground all had phones now. “What if I don’t want to sell?” he asked, facing away. Quieter still in the kitchen. Daughter replied, carefully, “Dad, it’s your property. It’s your decision. We can’t force you. We just—we worry about you. You’ve said yourself you’re not as strong anymore.” “Not as strong,” he agreed. “But I can still choose what to do.” Son sighed: “Dad, we don’t want to argue. But honestly, from our side, it seems like you’re clinging to things and we’re struggling—financially and emotionally. We worry what’ll happen if you fall ill. Who’ll deal with the cottage, who’ll sort all this?” Sergey felt a stab of guilt. He’d thought of that too—what if he suddenly went? The kids would be left sorting out the estate, the cottage, the garage. It would be tough. He returned to the table, sat. “What if…” He stopped, tried again. “What if I put the cottage in your names, but keep going as long as I can?” Son and daughter exchanged a look. Daughter-in-law frowned. “Dad,” she said, “it’s still our problem then. We can’t go as often as you’d want—work, kids.” “I’m not asking you to,” Sergey said. “I’ll manage—while I can. After that, it’s up to you.” He realised he was offering a compromise. For him—the chance to keep the place that was more than just land. For them—the reassurance it was already theirs, no inheritance hassle later. Daughter considered. “That could work,” she said. “But let’s be honest. We’re not likely to use it. We’ve talked about maybe moving anyway. Flats, jobs, different city—might even be easier elsewhere.” Sergey flinched. He hadn’t known. Son looked surprised too. “You never said,” he told his sister. “We’re only thinking about it,” she brushed him off. “That’s not the point. The cottage doesn’t mean what it does to you. It’s not our future.” He caught the word—“future.” For them it was elsewhere: in other cities, flats, plans. For him, the future shrank to a few spots on the map. The flat, the cottage, the garage. Places he knew. The talk went in circles: they had figures, he had memories. They talked health, he talked how he’d waste away doing nothing. At one point his son, tired, said sharper than he meant: “Dad, you can’t carry on digging forever. One day you just won’t be able. It’ll rot. We’ll come once a year, look at the wreck.” Sergey’s anger bubbled up: “A wreck to you? In that ‘wreck’ you played as a boy.” “As a boy,” the son said. “Now I’ve moved on. I’ve got other priorities.” The words hung in the air. Daughter tried to soften things: “Sasha, come on—” But it was too late. Sergey saw, suddenly clear, they spoke different languages. For him, time at the cottage was life. For them, a sweet but unnecessary past. He stood. “Alright,” he said. “Let me think. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. I need some time.” “Dad,” daughter began, “but we can’t wait forever. We have a mortgage payment next month…” “I get it,” he cut her off. “But you get it, too. This isn’t selling a wardrobe.” They fell silent. Then got their coats. In the hall, they fumbled with shoes. At the door, daughter hugged him. “We’re not against the cottage. We just worry, Dad,” she whispered. He nodded, voice caught. Once the door closed, the flat filled with silence. Sergey went to the kitchen, sat down. The tea things still out, untouched biscuits. He sat for a long time, lightless. Outside, dusk deepened and other windows flickered to life. He rose, went to his room, took out the folder of documents: passport, property deeds. Paused over the tiny plot map. A little rectangle, garden beds marked off. He ran a finger along the lines, as if along the real paths. Next day, he went to the garage, craving something for his hands to do. He flung open the doors, let in the bright cool air. Sorted through boxes—decided to finally bin some broken bits, rusty bolts, the wires he’d kept, “just in case.” His neighbour, old Sergei, popped his head in. “Clearing out?” he called. “Just sorting what I still need,” Sergey replied. “Good plan. I sold up—my garage. My lad needed cash for a car. No garage now, but he’s happy.” Sergey said nothing. The neighbour walked off, leaving him with his boxes and thoughts. Sold. Lad’s happy. As simple as chucking an old coat. He picked up an old spanner, rounded shiny from use. Twirled it, remembering his son at his side, a boy, begging to have a go himself. He’d thought they’d always be close, always talking over cars and garages together. But now, that language didn’t mean the same to his son. That evening, Sergey fetched the deeds again, then called his daughter. “I’ve made up my mind,” he said. “We’ll put the cottage in your and Sasha’s names—half each. But no selling just yet. I’ll keep going as long as I can. Afterwards—you do as you want.” She paused. “Are you sure, Dad?” “I’m sure,” he lied. Deep down, uncertainty gnawed, but there was no other way. “Alright, Dad. Let’s meet tomorrow, discuss how to do it.” He hung up. The room was quiet. He felt drained, but also oddly lighter. Like he’d made a choice that had been coming, regardless. A week later, they met the solicitor. Signed the gift deeds, Sergey’s hand trembling slightly. The solicitor showed him where to sign, what to take away. The kids thanked him. “Thanks, Dad, it means a lot,” the son said. Sergey nodded, but inside he knew he wasn’t just helping them—they were helping him avoid thinking about “what next.” Now “what next” was written in the deeds. He kept the garage, for now. The kids hinted he could sell that too, but he firmly refused. Told them he needed it—couldn’t spend all day watching TV. That they understood. After—everything outwardly unchanged. Still in his flat, still visiting the cottage, now as a guest in a place that, on paper, wasn’t his. But the keys stayed with him. No one stopped him going. The first time after the paperwork, Sergey drove out on a warm April day. On the way he mulled that it was no longer his, just holding someone else’s property. But as he opened the gate and heard the creak, saw the familiar path, the feeling of being a stranger eased. He went inside, hung up his coat. All was as before: same bed, same table, the old bear with its taped ear. He sat by the window, sunbeam highlighting the dust. Sergey laid a hand on the sill, feeling every gouge in the wood. He thought of the children, their busy flats, doing sums, making plans. Of himself, his plans shrinking to months, to one more spring, another batch of seedlings, one more summer on the porch. He knew they’d sell it, sooner or later—perhaps a year, maybe five, once he couldn’t come anymore. They’d say it made sense to let an empty place go. They’d be right, in their way. But for now the cottage stood. The roof held. The tools were in the shed. The earliest green shoots were rising from the earth. He could still work the soil, lift and carry and weed. He went outside, circled the cottage, stopped by the fence. Watched neighbours digging, pegging laundry up. Life rolled on. He realised his fear wasn’t just about the cottage or garage. It was about becoming surplus—not needed by his kids, not even by himself. These places proved he still had a place, things to fix, paint, dig. Now the proof was fragile. The solicitor’s deeds said one thing; habit, another. But sitting on the porch, he realised paper wasn’t everything. He poured a cup of tea from his flask, took a sip. Inside, a little bitterness, but not as fierce as that night at the kitchen table. The decision settled; the cost, understood. He’d surrendered what he thought of as his, but gained something too—the right to be here, not by paperwork, but by memory. He looked at the door, the lock, the old key in his hand. The key was worn, the head smooth. He turned it over, squeezed it in his fist. One day his son or daughter, or even strangers would hold that key, not knowing what it meant. This thought was both sad and calming. The world moves on, things pass from hand to hand. What matters is having lived in your place, while it was yours not on paper, but in your bones. Sergey finished his tea, stood. Went to the shed for the spade. He should dig over at least one bed—for himself, not for future owners, not even for the kids who, probably, were already counting the money. For himself, to feel the ground under foot, under the blade. He pressed the spade into the soil, put his foot to the bar. The ground yielded; the first clod turned, exposing dark, wet earth. Sergey leaned into the scent and bent again. The job was slow. His back ached, hands tired. But each spadeful made something inside a little lighter, as if he was digging through more than just soil. When evening fell, he sat on the porch, wiped his brow. The beds, newly dug, lay in straight lines. The sky above the little plot had taken on a pink tinge. A bird cried somewhere far off. He looked at the cottage, his footprints in the earth, the spade resting against the wall. Wondered about tomorrow, next year, five years from now. No answers. But right now, at least, he belonged here. He stood, closed up the cottage, turned off the light. On the porch, he paused for a second, listening to the quiet. Then he turned the key in the lock. The metal clicked. Sergey slipped the key in his pocket and walked the narrow path to his car, careful not to step on the freshly dug earth.

No Ones Home George awoke without an alarm, as he always had, at half six. The flat was quiet, save for

La vida

017

The Step-Son

Watch what you say! Thats your brother, you know! My stepdad barked, giving me a swift smack on the back

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Ricardo Salazar Stood Still for What Felt Like an Eternity.

Richard Salazar stood frozen, the weight of his world pressing down on him. He had built a belief that