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 the gentle hum of the old fridge in the kitchen. He lay there a moment, listening to that sound, then reached for his glasses on the windowsill. Outside, dawn crept over the terraced roofs and the occasional car hissed by on the wet tarmac down the street.

In years past, hed be getting ready for work at this hourup, into the bathroom, listening to Mr. Clarks radio faintly through the wall. Mr. Clark still switched on the radio every morning, but now George simply lay in bed, turning over what he might do with his day. He had been retired for three years now, at least officially, but habits were hard to shake and he still kept to his routine.

He got up, pulled on his old track bottoms, and made his way to the kitchen. He set the kettle to boil and cut a slice off yesterdays bloomer loaf. While the water heated, he wandered over to the window. Seventh floor, block of flats, communal green below. His battered old Fiesta stood in its usual slot, wearing a fine coat of dust. He noted, by reflex more than purpose, that he really should pop round to the lock-up, check if the roof was still sound.

The garage was in a block about three bus stops away. Once upon a time, hed spent half his weekends there, tinkering with his car, changing the oil, having a natter with the neighbours about the price of petrol or how Chelsea were doing. Now everything was easierone quick call to the garage, clicks online for tyres or parts. Still, he kept the lock-up. His tools were there, old tyres, boxes of wires and timberbits and bobs, as he called it.

And then, of course, the allotment. A little timber shed on a plot at the back of the old cricket ground, just outside town. Narrow porch, two small rooms, the tiniest kitchen imaginable. He had only to shut his eyes to see the cracked paint, hear the thud of rain on the roof. The place had been his wifes parents, handed down to them more than twenty years ago. In those days, theyd go almost every weekend, the children in tow. Digging up the beds, frying potatoes, playing The Beatles on an old radio perched on a stool.

His wife had been gone four years now. The children were grown, scattered across London, families of their own. But the allotment and the lock-up remained with him. They gave him an anchor, a structure, a way to set the world in order. Here was the flat, there the plot, there the garageall as it should be.

The kettle whistled. George poured his tea, sat down at the table. Yesterdays woollen jumper lay neatly folded on the chair across from him. He munched his sandwich, staring at the jumper, and thought back to last nights talk.

The children had come by in the eveningSam with his wife and their little boy, his grandson; Alice and her husband. They had tea, discussed holidays, and then as nearly always lately, the topic turned to money.

Sam was saying the mortgage was weighing on them, rates going up. Alice remarked that nursery fees were a fortune, and then there were clubs, uniforms George nodded as he listened, remembering how hed once counted out every last penny before his pay came in. But back then, thered been no allotment, no garagejust a rented bedsit and hope.

Then, after a pause, Sam had spoken, hesitating:

Dad, we were talking, me and Emma and with Alice too. Maybe maybe you ought to think about selling something? The allotment, maybe. The garage. You hardly go anymore.

George had made a joke of it, changed the subject. But that night hed tossed and turned, that phrase you hardly go circling his mind.

He finished his sandwich, his tea, set his cup in the sink and checked the clock. Eight oclock. He decided hed go to the allotment todaycheck how things had weathered the winter, and perhaps prove something to himself.

He dressed up warm, took the keys for the allotment and garage from the hall, slipping them into his jacket pocket. In the hallway, he paused before the old mirror with its narrow frame. The reflection showed a man with silver at his temples, eyes a little tired but still strong. Not yet elderly. He straightened his collar and left.

On his way, he stopped by the garage to pick up a few tools. The lock squealed; the door stuck with its familiar stubbornness. Inside, it smelled of dust and petrol and old rags. Tins of screws, boxes of wires, a cassette marked in bright red felt tip. Webs hung in clumps from the ceiling.

George ran an eye over the shelves. There, the jack hed bought for his first car. There, planks he’d meant to use to build a bench for the allotmentnever got round to it. The boards still waited, patient.

He took his toolbox, a couple of old jerry cans, locked up and drove on.

The road out of town took nearly an hour. Grubby snow still lay in patches along the verges, the earth black beneath. The allotment rows were mostly empty; it was too early for the regulars. The gatekeeper, Mrs. Baker, nodded to him from her folding chair as he passed through.

The hut and plot greeted him with that same motionless air that always filled the place in winter. The faded fence, the gate slightly askew. He unlocked, made his way down the narrow path to the porch, last years leaves crunching underfoot.

Inside, it smelled of damp and timber. George opened the windows, pulled the musty cover from the bed and shook it out. In the kitchen, the enamel saucepan still sat on the table, last used to stew apples years ago. By the door hung a ring of keysone for the shed where the garden gear was kept.

He went round the little rooms, running his hand along walls and doorknobs. In what had been the childrens room, the bunk beds remained, a teddy bear with one ear missing perched on top. He remembered his sons tears and his own clumsy attempt to stick the ear back on with old electricians tape.

He stepped out onto the plot. The snow had nearly vanished, the beds black and muddy. In the corner stood the rusty barbecue. He remembered cooking sausages on it, he and his wife sitting with tea in glass cups on the porch, laughter from the plots next door drifting in on the breeze.

With a sigh, he set to work: clearing the path, fixing a loose board on the porch, checking the sheds roof. He found an old plastic chair, set it in the garden, and sat. The sun had climbed higher and a bit of warmth seeped through.

He glanced at his mobile. There was a call from Sam last night and a message from Alice: We ought to have a proper chat, Dad. Were not against the allotment, reallywe just want to be sensible about it.

Sensible. That word had been cropping up a lot of late. Sensiblemeaning money shouldnt sit idle. Sensible for an old man not to wear himself out with a plot and garage. Sensible, meaning help your kids when you still can.

He understood, truly. But as he sat on that plastic chair, listening to a dog bark distantly, the drip-drip off the shed roof, sensible drifted away. Here, it wasnt about figures.

George got up, took another turn round the garden, then locked the hut, snapped the heavy padlock on the door, and drove back to town.

By lunchtime, he was home. He set his toolbox down in the hallway, put the kettle on in the kitchenand only then noticed the note on the table. Short, on a scrap of notepad: Dad, well come round this evening for a chat. S.

He sat at the table, hands flat on the wood. So, tonight. Tonight theyd talk properly, no dodging.

That evening, they all arrivedSam and Emma, Alice. The grandson was left with his other gran. George opened the door, greeted them, let them in. Sam took off his shoes and coat, hung them upunthinking, same as when he was a boy.

They sat at the kitchen table. George set out tea, biscuits, sweets. No one touched them. For several minutes, they talked of nothingshows the boy, hows work, the endless London traffic.

Then Alice glanced at her brother, who nodded, and she said:

Dad, lets really talk. We dont want to pressure you, but we all need to decide about things.

George felt something tighten inside. He nodded.

Go on.

Sam took the lead.

Youve got the flat, the allotment, and the garage. The flats yourswe wouldnt dream of touching that. But the plot youve said yourself its getting hard. All those beds, the roof, the fence. Every year, more money needed.

I was there today, George said quietly. Its fine.

Well, it is, for now, Emma cut in. But in five years? Ten? Sorry, but you wont be around forever. We have to think ahead.

George turned away. The words about his not being around were bluntnot meant to wound, perhaps, but they stung anyway.

Alice spoke more gently.

Were not saying give up everything. But maybe, if you sold the plot and the garage, the money could be split. Some for you, so youre comfortable, and some for us and Sam. Itd clear a chunk of the mortgage. You always said you wanted to help us, Dad.

He really had said that, when hed first retiredback when he thought hed stay strong for years, always able to help out.

I do my bit, he said. I look after the boy sometimes, fill your fridge.

Sam gave a strained smile.

Dad, thats not it. We need a real sum. Youve seen the rates. Were not asking for everything. Its just youve got things that are just sitting there.

The word things felt wrong in his kitchen. George imagined a barrier risinga barrier of figures and loan agreements.

He reached for his tea, took a sip. Stone cold.

To you, its things, he said slowly. To me its

He broke off, searching for the word. Didnt want to sound grand.

Theyre pieces of a life, he said at last. I built that garage myself. My dad was alive thenwe lugged those bricks together. And the plot thats where you both grew up.

Alice looked down. Sam was quiet, then softened.

We do get it, Dad. But you hardly ever go there now. It just sits. You cant keep up, not on your own.

I was there today, George repeated. Its all right.

Today, Sam said. But before? Last autumn? Be honest, Dad.

There was a silence. From the other room, the clock ticked. George was suddenly very aware that here they sat, discussing his old age as if it were a spreadsheetcosts, assets, redistribution.

All right, he said. What exactly are you suggesting?

Sam brightened; clearly, theyd already worked it all out.

Weve found an agent. She reckons the plot should fetch a good price. Wed sell the garage too. Well look after all the viewings and paperwork. Youd just have to sign the documents.

And the flat? George asked.

Were not touching the flat, Alice said quickly. Thats your home.

He nodded. That word home struck him. Did that mean just these four walls? Or was the plot a kind of home too? Even the garage, hours spent therenot just fixing things, but belonging?

He rose and crossed to the window. The streetlights were on outside. The courtyard looked much as it had decades agojust the cars were different now, and the children all had phones.

What if I dont want to sell? he said, without turning round.

Silence. Then Alice said carefully:

Dad, its your property. Of course its your decision. We cant force you. But we just worry. Youve said yourself you get tired.

I do, he admitted. But I can still decide what to do with my days.

Sam sighed.

Dad, were not trying to fall out with you. But honestly, it feels like youre clinging to things, while its tough for usfinancially, even emotionally. Were always thinking, if something happened to you, whod sort the plot, the garage, all of it?

George felt a twinge of guilt. Hed thought the same thing, sometimes. If he died suddenly, the kids would have mountains of paperwork, sorting out who got what. It wouldnt be easy.

He came back to the table and sat down.

What if he began, then faltered. What if I put the allotment in your names, but I keep going up there, till I cant anymore?

Sam and Alice glanced at each other. Emma frowned.

Dad, she said, but then its still an issue. We just cant get out there as much as you donot with work, kids

Im not asking that, George said. Ill do it, as long as I can. Afterwards you do what you like.

He knew he was suggesting a compromise. For himselfa chance to keep the place that meant the world to him. For themahead of time, the surety that the property was theirs, so thered be less hassle when he was gone.

Alice considered.

Thats something, I suppose. But lets be honest, Dadwe wont be living there. Weve got our own plans. Jennie and I are even thinking of movingsomewhere outside London, cheaper, jobs going.

George jerked a little. He hadnt known that. Even Sam looked surprised.

You hadnt said, he said to his sister.

Were just thinking, Alice shrugged. Thats not the point. Its justthe plots not our future, Dad. Its not for us.

He caught on that: future. For them, the future lay elsewherein new cities, new flats, new tomorrows. For him, the future shrank to a handful of places he knew: the flat, the lock-up, the plotplaces where he belonged.

The talk went round and round for another twenty minutes. They brought up numbers. He replied with memories. Health, they said; purpose, he answered. Finally, Sam, tired, said more sharply than he meant to:

Dad, get realtherell come a time when you cant even carry a fork. Then what? The whole lot will rot! Wed visit once a year and stare at ruins?

Georges temper flared.

Ruins, is it? You were all over those ruins as a boy.

As a boy, yeah, Sam replied. But I grew up, Dad. Ive got my own responsibilities.

The words hung between them. Alice tried to smooth things over:

Sam, enough

But it was too late. George realisedthey were speaking different languages. To him, the time spent at the plot had been living. To them, it was the past: endearing, but disposable.

He stood up.

All right, he said. Ill think it over. Not today, not tomorrow. I need time.

Dad, Alice said, we cant wait forever. The mortgagenext payments due soon. We need

I get it, he cut in. But you have to get this: this isnt selling a cupboard.

They lapsed into silence, and soon started to leave. The goodbye was gentle. Alice hugged him, resting her cheek against his.

Were not against the place, Dad, she murmured. Were just worried.

He nodded, unsure if his voice would hold.

After theyd gone, the flat felt emptier than ever. George went to the kitchen, sat at the table. The untouched cups and plate of biscuits remained. He stared at them, so tired he felt hollow.

He sat there for a long time, in the growing dusk, window lights rising across the street. At last, he got up, fetched from the wardrobe his folder of documentspassport, deeds for the plot and garage. He turned the brittle page with the plan of the plota little square, divided into beds, walkways. He traced the lines with his finger, as if walking the real paths.

The next morning, he went to his lock-up. He needed to do something physical. The garage was cold, but sunlight flooded in as he threw the doors open. He sorted tools, sifted boxes, at last deciding to clear out some junkbroken bits, rusted bolts, wires just in case.

His old mate Mick, who had the next plot, came over.

Whats all this thenclearing out?

Just sorting, George replied. Trying to see what I want and what I dont.

Fair play, Mick nodded. I flogged mine. Garage, I mean. Gave my lad the money for his first car. Lost my lock-up, but the boys sorted, so there you go.

George said nothing. Mick wandered back with a wave. Sold itboy sorted. Easy, like an old mac.

He hefted a spanner, heavy and worn. Used to be, little Sam would beg to turn a bolt too. Back then, hed thought the garage, the car, the plotit was all some secret code theyd speak together forever.

Now, his son didnt understand that language at all.

That night, he fetched the documents again. Then he phoned Alice.

Ive decided, he said. Well put the allotment in your namessplit it between you and Sam. But no selling for now. Ill carry on up there as long as Im able. Afterwards, its yours to do as you please.

Silence.

Are you sure? Alice said, softly.

I am, he replied, though inside it didnt feel true. More like cutting something loose he couldnt keep anyway.

All right, she said. Lets meet tomorrowsort the forms.

He hung up, sat back. Silence filled the room. He felt tired, but also oddly relieveda choice made, however hard.

A week later, they went to the solicitor. Papers were signed. Georges hand shook a little. The solicitor explained where to sign, which documents to keep. The kids were grateful.

Thank you, Dad, Sam said. Youre helping us out of a tight spot.

He nodded, though in truth, it was a relief for him too. Now what comes after was written on the page.

He kept the garage, for now. The kids would have liked to see it gone too, but he held firmthey accepted, seeing at least he needed somewhere to be useful.

Afterwards, life seemed barely altered. He lived in his flat, visited the plot, now technically a guest in his own old shed. But the keys were still in his pocket. No one stopped him coming and going.

The first time he went back after signing the papers, it was a warm April afternoon. He told himself, this cottage isnt mine nowsomeone elses. And yet, when he opened the gate and heard its familiar squeak, the old sense of ownership returned.

He went inside, hung his jacket on the old nail. The little room was unchangedbed, table, the teddy with its taped-up ear.

He sat on a rickety kitchen stool at the window. A sunbeam lit the dusty sill. George ran his hand over the wood grain, feeling every lump and groove.

He thought of his children, in their flats, counting bills, drawing up plans. He thought of himself, whose plans now ran not in years, but by seasons. Live to see another spring, dig the beds one more time, sit on the steps some July afternoon.

He knew they would sell the plot one dayperhaps in a year, or five. When he could no longer manage the trip. Theyd say it was silly to leave it empty, and theyd be right, in their way.

But for now, the place stood. The roof was whole. Spades waited in the shed. Out on the beds, green shoots were already poking through. He could walk the paths still, bend to the soil, lift things from the earth.

He stepped outside, took a slow stroll round the boundary. In next doors patch, someone knelt, planting seedlings. On a line, laundry fluttered. Life, as ever, trundled on.

Suddenly, George realised his fear was about more than a plot or garage. It was the fear of becoming unnecessaryto his children, to himself. These places proved, for now, that he still had purpose. He could still mend something, dig, paint, fix.

Now that proof was frailerthe solicitors documents said one thing, his habits another. But sitting by the steps, George realised not everything lived or died by a scrap of paper.

He poured himself a mug of tea from his old thermos. Took a sip and listened to the quiet within. It was still a little bitter, but not as sharp as the night theyd sat round his kitchen table. The decision was made. The price accepted. Hed given away a share of what he called his, but earned in return something elsethe right to belong here, not by title, but by memory.

He glanced at the door, at the old padlock, at the scuffed key in his hand. One day, this key would pass to Sam or Alice, or else to strangers theyd sell tofolk with no idea of all it had meant. Theyd turn it in the lock, knowing nothing of the story behind that simple act.

The thought was sad, but oddly peaceful. Things changed, the world moved on. The best you could do was live out your years in the places that were yoursnot on paper, but in your bones.

George drained his mug, stood up. He fetched a spade from the shed. Time to dig at least one bedjust for himself. Not for the future owners, not even for the kids anxiously counting up the pounds, but for himself, to feel the earth beneath his feet and fingers.

He thrust the spade into the ground, pressing down with his boot. The soil gave way. The first clod turned over, dark and rich. George drew in the scent, bent again, working slowly.

Back ached; hands tired. But clod by clod, something inside eased. As if, with each shovelful, he turned over not just earth, but some of his fear.

By evening, he sat on the steps, wiped his brow. On the bed behind him, the newly dug furrows lay straight. The sky had turned pinkish. Somewhere, a bird called overhead.

He looked at the hut, the prints of his boots in the soft ground, the spade leaning by the wall. He wondered what next week, next year, five years from now, would bring. There was no answeronly the sense that, for this moment, he was exactly where he belonged.

He rose, locked up the shed, flicked off the lamp, and paused on the porch, listening to the hush settling over the plots. Then he turned the key in the dooriron clicking in the stillness.

George slipped the key into his pocket and walked slowly back up the narrow path to his car, careful not to step on the soil he had just turned over.