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German Pianist Called English Folk “Noise Without Technique”… Until a Young Londoner Made Him Weep at the Royal Festival Hall’s Grand Opening Night

The Grand Theatre of Bath sparkled beneath the floodlights, a beacon of culture for a particularly chilly

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ARE YOU MY HAPPINESS? To be honest, marriage was never part of my plan. If it hadn’t been for my future husband’s relentless courtship, I’d probably still be flying free as a bird. Artem fluttered after me like a lovesick moth, never letting me out of his sight, eager to please, never missed a detail. Eventually, I gave in. We got married. Artem instantly felt like home—a familiar, comforting presence, as easy as slipping into cosy slippers. A year later, our son Svyatoslav was born. Artem worked in another city, coming home once a week, always bringing tasty treats for me and our little Svya. During one of those visits, as I prepared to do his laundry, I went through the pockets—and out tumbled a neatly-folded list. I unfolded it. It was a long list of school supplies (it was August), and at the end, in a child’s handwriting: “Daddy, come home soon.” So that’s what my husband gets up to on the side! A double life! Instead of causing a scene, I packed my bag, grabbed Svya (not quite three yet) by the hand, and moved in with Mum. Mum gave us a room: “Stay until you make up.” Thoughts of revenge crept in. I remembered my old classmate, Roman. He’d never taken no for an answer, at school and beyond. So I called him. “Hi, Romka! Married yet?” “Nadia? Hello! Married…divorced…it’s all the same! Shall we meet?” My unplanned fling with Roman lasted six months. Artem brought child support for Svya every month, handing it silently to my mum and leaving. I knew he was living with Katya Yevseyeva, who had a daughter from her first marriage. Katya insisted her little girl call Artem ‘Daddy’. They all lived in Artem’s flat. As soon as Katya found out I had gone, she moved with her daughter to Artem from another city. Katya worshipped him—knitted socks, warm jumpers, cooked delicious meals. I’d only hear about it later. I still tease Artem about Katya to this day. Back then, our marriage seemed dead in the water. …Yet, over coffee (to discuss the divorce), Artem and I were suddenly swamped by fond memories. He confessed to an all-consuming love, repented, and admitted he didn’t know how to get rid of persistent Katya. I felt unbearably sorry for him. We reunited. For the record, Artem never learned about Roman. Katya and her daughter left town for good. Seven happy years flew by. Then Artem was in a car accident. Several surgeries, rehab, a walking cane—the recovery lasted two years. It wore him out. Artem began drinking heavily, shutting down completely. Words failed; he wore himself and us out. Refused help. Meanwhile, at work, my “shoulder to cry on” was Paul. Paul listened to me in the smoking area, walked me home, comforted me. He was married, expecting his second child. I still don’t know how we ended up in bed together. Madness. He was a head shorter than me, not remotely my type! And so it began! Paul dragged me to exhibitions, concerts, ballet. Once his wife had their daughter, Paul stopped the fun, quit our office, got another job. Maybe he thought: ‘out of sight, out of mind’? I never made demands, so I let him go. He only numbed my heartache. I never meant to interfere in another family’s love. My husband drank on. …Five years later, Paul and I bumped into each other. He seriously proposed. I just laughed. Artem managed to pull himself together—briefly—and went to work in the Czech Republic. While he was away, I was the model wife and mother, every thought revolving around my family. He came back after six months. We renovated the flat, bought appliances, and Artem finally fixed his foreign car. Life should have been perfect. But no—he relapsed. Hell resumed. His friends carried him home. I’d run round our neighbourhood in search of my absent husband, finding him asleep on benches, pockets turned out, dragging him back. …One spring day, I was waiting at a bus stop, feeling low. Birds chirping, sunshine sparkling, but I couldn’t care less. Someone softly whispered in my ear: “May I help with your troubles?” I turned. Good heavens! What a handsome, fragrant man. And at 45, could I really become a berry again? I flushed like a shy girl. Thankfully, the bus arrived. I hopped on, escaping temptation. He waved. All day at work, my thoughts drifted to him. For a few weeks, I played hard to get, just for show… But Egor—so he was called—powered through my defences like a tank. He waited for me every morning at the same stop. I’d watch for him. He’d spot me and blow kisses. One morning, he brought a bouquet of red tulips. “What am I supposed to do with flowers on my way to work? The girls will suspect something!” Egor smiled, handed the bouquet over to an intrigued old lady. “Thanks, dearie! May you find a passionate lover!” I blushed at her words—thank heaven she didn’t wish for a younger one! Egor said: “Come on, Nadia, let’s both be guilty! You won’t regret it.” Honestly, the offer was irresistible and timely. My husband was out of action, lying in a drunken stupor. Egor was a teetotal, non-smoking former athlete (57 years old) and a wonderful conversationalist. Divorced. Something enchanting about him! I plunged headlong into this affair! It was a whirlwind of passion for three years. I was torn between home and Egor, my soul in turmoil. Stopping wasn’t an option—but when the desire to leave did come, I lacked the strength. As they say, ‘the girl drives the lad away, and he won’t go.’ Egor completely possessed me, body and soul! When Egor was nearby, I could barely breathe! It felt like madness! But I knew this obsession would end badly. I didn’t love Egor. Coming home drained (after my fiery lover), I just wanted to cuddle my husband—blearily drunk, smelling foul, but so familiar and pure! Better plain bread with your own than someone else’s fancy cakes! That was my truth. Passion—as in suffering—made me want to get it over with and return to family life, not keep chasing excitement. At least, that’s how my mind reasoned. My body ignored it. Still, I couldn’t stop myself. My son knew about Egor. He saw us at a restaurant with his girlfriend; I had to introduce them. They shook hands. Later, Svya looked at me for an explanation. I joked: a colleague invited me to discuss a new project. “Right…in a restaurant,” he replied knowingly. Svya never judged me—asked me not to divorce Dad. Maybe he’d come round. I felt like a lost lamb. My divorced girlfriend urged me to “ditch these miserable lovers and settle down.” Her advice carried weight—she’d finished off husband number three. Though, it was all logical, I could only stop when Egor raised his hand to me. That was the breaking point. As my friend warned: “The sea’s calm as long as you stay on shore…” The scales fell from my eyes. Life was in colour again! Three years of anguish—gone. Freedom and long-awaited peace! Egor kept chasing me everywhere, begging publically for forgiveness. I stood firm. My friend kissed me and gave me a mug that said “You Did the Right Thing!” As for Artem, he knew all about my escapades. Egor called him, told him everything. My lover was sure I’d leave my family. Artem told me: “When I heard your suitor’s serenading, I just wanted to quietly die. But I brought this on myself. Lost my wife to drink. What could I say to you?” …Ten years have passed since then. We have two granddaughters. One day, sitting at our kitchen table, sipping coffee, I gaze out the window. Artem gently takes my hand: “Nadia, stop looking around. I am your happiness! Do you believe it?” “Of course I do, my one and only…”

ARE YOU MY HAPPINESS? Truth be told, I never really planned on getting married. If it werent for the

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How I Pretended to Be Happy for Nine Years, Raised Another Man’s Son, and Prayed My Secret Would Stay Hidden—Until the Day My Child Needed His Real Father’s Blood, and for the First Time I Saw My Husband Cry

How I Pretended To Be a Happy Wife for Nine Years, Raised Another Mans Son, and Prayed My Secret Would

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How I Pretended to Be Happy for Nine Years, Raised Another Man’s Son, and Prayed My Secret Would Stay Hidden—Until the Day My Child Needed His Real Father’s Blood, and I Saw My Husband Cry for the First Time

The golden light of the evening sun poured over the rolling hills like honey, bathing the humble cottages

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Happy Women Always Look Amazing Lily was shattered by her husband’s betrayal. At forty, she found herself alone, her daughter studying at university in another city. Two months ago, Igor had come home from work and announced, “I’m leaving you. I’ve fallen in love.” “What do you mean? With whom?” Lily stammered, bewildered. “You know how it goes. I’ve met someone else, and I’m happier with her. Don’t try to convince me otherwise, I’ve made up my mind,” Igor replied, as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. He packed his things quickly and left. Later, analyzing the situation, Lily realized he hadn’t decided to leave overnight—he’d steadily taken things over time, but that day he threw everything in a suitcase and shut the door for good. Lily wept, believing her life was over and nothing good would ever happen again. She didn’t want to see or talk to anyone, even though her phone rang constantly—her daughter, her friend, all calling. At work, colleagues looked at her differently: some felt sorry for her, some were smug. She found herself hoping, “Maybe Igor will tire of the woman who took him from me and come back, and I’ll forgive him because I love him.” One Saturday Lily woke up early but stayed in bed; there was no rush to start her day. Around eleven, her phone rang from an unfamiliar number. She almost didn’t answer, but wondered, “What if it’s Igor, maybe he lost his phone or changed his number?” The phone rang again. “Hello?” she said. A cheerful woman replied, “Hi, Lily! Don’t tell me you don’t recognize your old friends. It’s me—Sophie.” Disappointed it wasn’t Igor, Lily answered curtly, “Not really, no.” Then she broke down, hung up, and sat on the sofa trying to compose herself. Soon, there was a knock at the door. Again, Lily hoped, “Maybe Igor’s come to his senses.” But at the door was a glamorous woman Lily barely recognized—her old school friend, Sophie. Sophie had returned from London, stylish and vibrant. She swept into the kitchen with a bottle of Spanish wine, cake, and oranges, insisting they celebrate their reunion immediately. Sophie listened to Lily’s story of heartbreak, then shrugged. “Honestly, Lily, I thought it was something serious!” “You wouldn’t understand—your husband never left you,” Lily replied sadly. “Please! I kicked mine out when I found out he was cheating,” Sophie said. “You have to let go of anyone who betrays you—love doesn’t mean tolerating that.” Sophie quickly shifted Lily’s mood: “What you need is a makeover, some retail therapy, and a fresh start.” She dragged Lily to a shopping centre and into a salon. Soon Lily had a new haircut, a new colour, and a whole new look. She barely recognized herself—she looked young, chic, and radiant. A week later, at their school reunion in a lively café, almost no one recognized Lily, except for Victor, an old classmate and now a successful businessman. “Lily, you look even more beautiful than you did at school! I always liked you,” he confessed. Later, on a brisk evening walk along the riverside with Victor after the theatre, they bumped into Igor—thinner, alone, and stunned to see Lily transformed and happy. “Lily? Is that… you?” Igor stammered. “Ah, hello. Meet Victor, my future husband,” Lily smiled, introducing her companion. Jaw dropped, Igor managed, “You look incredible.” Lily smiled brightly and replied, “Happy women always look amazing.” Igor mumbled, “So you’re alright then?” “Absolutely. And things are just getting better.” With her head held high and Victor beside her, Lily walked away, feeling only the burning gaze of the man who once believed she’d never be happy without him.

Happy Women Always Look Wonderful Lydia drifted through a grey mist of sadness after her husband betrayed her.

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A Belated Gift The bus jerked and Mrs. Anna Palmer clung to the rail with both hands, feeling the rough plastic yield just a little beneath her fingers. Her shopping bag thudded against her knees, the apples rolling dully inside. She stood by the door, counting stops until her own—autumn sunlight flickering over her sensible shoes. At her ear, headphones hissed quietly; her granddaughter had begged she keep the phone on in case, “Gran, you never know, I might call.” The phone sat in her coat pocket, as heavy as a stone. Still, Mrs. Palmer checked for the zip, then pictured herself coming home—putting the bag on the old stool, swapping shoes, folding up her scarf, lining up the groceries just so before starting the soup. In the evening, her son would collect the containers; he was on shift, no time to cook. When the bus juddered to a halt and the doors whooshed open, Mrs. Palmer shuffled carefully down the steps, gripping the handrail, out into the estate square. Children dashed past, a girl on a scooter veering at the last second. The landing outside her block smelled of cat food and stale smoke. Later, at her kitchen table, Mrs. Palmer’s phone vibrated. She dried her hands and tugged it closer. “Hello, Sasha,” she leaned toward the phone, as if her son’s voice might come clearer. “Mum, hi. How are you?” He sounded rushed, someone muttering behind him. “Fine. Soup’s on. Will you be by?” “Yes, in a couple of hours. Listen, Mum, there’s another collection at Jacob’s nursery—group repairs, could you…?” He trailed off. “Like last time.” Mrs. Palmer already reached for the grey ledger in her side drawer, her ballpoint next to “Pension”: neat figures for bills, medicine, grandchildren, emergencies. “How much?” “Three hundred? If you can. Everyone’s chipping in but you know…” He sighed. “It’s not easy.” “I know,” she said. “I’ll manage.” “You’re the best, Mum. See you tonight. And your soup—can’t wait.” Once the call ended, she marked “Nursery” and the sum, pausing a moment, feeling the numbers crowd together. Less left than she’d like—but manageable. “We’ll get by,” she thought. A small calendar magnet clung to her fridge. “Community Centre: Season tickets available—Classical, Jazz, Theatre. Senior discounts.” Mrs. Palmer’s neighbour Maggie had given her the magnet with a birthday cake. Sometimes she caught herself reading the words, waiting for the kettle: Season tickets. She remembered queueing for the Philharmonic in the old days with friends—numb toes, cheap tickets, laughter, her hair in a bun, her best dress and only pair of heels. Now, she imagined the concert hall—she hadn’t seen a stage in years. The grandchildren always dragged her to pantos and noisy shows, but that was different. Here, she wasn’t even sure what concerts happened these days. Or who went. She turned over the magnet—there was a number. She looked at the envelope in her drawer marked for a rainy day. “Don’t be silly,” she told herself. “Better to save for a new jacket for your granddaughter. She’s growing, everything’s dear.” Her son came for dinner. She handed over the money, he kissed her forehead, asked her again about sitting with the grandchildren on Saturday. Later, as she washed dishes, she heard his words echo: “Do you ever buy yourself anything, Mum?” The next morning was quiet: blossom through the window, chores stretching ahead. She did her physiotherapy slowly, made tea, and found herself dialing the number on the magnet. “Hello, Community Centre box office?” “Yes, can I help?” “I’m interested in… season tickets.” A patient list: symphonic, chamber, evenings of English song, children’s programming. Discounts, but still a fair price. She did the sums against her ledger, picturing the envelope in the drawer. The sum was possible, if not comfortable. “Think about it—we sell out quickly,” said the lady. “Thank you,” Mrs. Palmer whispered. After another round of hesitation—housework, neighbours, a gift of homemade pickles from Maggie—she finally called again: “I’d like to book a ticket for the evenings of English song.” She wrote down the details, pressed them under the fridge magnet. Her heart thumped, pride and nerves battling. That week, she quietly told her son she’d be out one night. “Where to?” he asked, startled. “To the Community Centre. For a concert.” “Who’s taking you?” he demanded. “Nobody,” she replied evenly. “I bought a season ticket. Myself.” He paused. “Mum, are you sure? You could have used that money for… well, you know.” She steeled herself. “Yes, but it’s my money.” He muttered some warnings—don’t catch cold, don’t overdo it—but let it go. On the night of the concert, Mrs. Palmer put on her best navy dress, brushed her hair a little longer, swapped old shoes for polished flats, and set out into dusk. Inside, after some searching, she found her seat amongst all sorts—couples, young and old, a few men in jumpers, women in nice blouses. She wasn’t the oldest, nor youngest—just another audience member with a programme and quiet anticipation. As singers took the stage and the music began—by an English composer she’d once heard on the radio—something quieted in her chest. She wasn’t just a pension, a helper, a giver. For an hour or two, she was simply herself: a woman with memories, needs, and wishes, drawn into song. At interval, she even treated herself to a chocolate bar in the foyer—something she hadn’t done in ages—and found herself chatting with another woman about grandchildren and plans put off too long. Afterwards, she caught the bus home, clutching her season pass, cheeks a little flushed. When her son called, there was warmth in her voice. “I’m home, love. It was wonderful.” He grumbled kindly, reminding her to be careful. She promised. The calendar on her wall soon sprouted more circles—concert dates penned in, a reminder of something new to look forward to. The world around her stayed the same: soups, checklists, helping out as much as she could. But within, Mrs. Palmer nurtured a quiet pride—a right, once again, to her own desires. One day, she spotted an advert in the paper: “Free Beginners’ French Group for Seniors—Local Library.” She tore it out, and tucked it beside her season ticket. “Let me finish my concerts first,” she decided. “Then who knows?” That night, as she lay in bed—a light switched off, the city settling outside—she felt sure something had shifted. A small, gentle change, circled on her kitchen calendar. Just for her, and enough.

The Late Gift The bus jerked to a halt and Anne Preston grabbed onto the pole with both hands, feeling

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The Syndrome of a Life Forever Put on Hold… Confessions of a 60-Year-Old Woman Helen: This year I turned 60. Not a single family member bothered to call and wish me a happy birthday. I have a daughter and a son, a grandson and granddaughter, and my ex-husband is still around. My daughter is 40, my son is 35. Both live in London, both graduated from prestigious universities there. Both smart, successful. My daughter is married to a high-ranking civil servant, my son married the daughter of a prominent London businessman. Both have thriving careers and plenty of properties; besides their public sector jobs, each runs their own business. Everything is stable. My ex-husband left when our son finished university. Said he was tired of living life at such a pace. Yet he always worked quietly at one job, relaxed with friends at weekends or lounged on the sofa, and spend his holidays for an entire month visiting relatives in Cornwall. I never took time off — worked three jobs at once: as an engineer in a factory, cleaning in management offices there, and, on weekends, as a packer at the local supermarket from 8 to 8, plus cleaning staff rooms and storage areas. Every penny I earned went to the kids — London is expensive, and studying at elite universities required good clothes, food, and social life. I learned to wear old clothes, mended and patched shoes. Always clean and tidy. It was enough. My only escape was my dreams — sometimes I’d see myself, happy and young, laughing. After he left, my husband bought himself a new luxury car, probably saved up plenty. Our life together was odd — all expenses were mine, except council tax. That was his one contribution. I put the kids through school… The flat we lived in came from my nan. A lovely, well-kept Victorian two-bed, converted into three rooms. There was an 8.5 square metre storeroom with a window that I renovated, making a cosy space with bed, desk, wardrobe, shelves; my daughter lived there. My son and I shared a room (I was only home to sleep), my husband lived in the lounge. When my daughter moved to London, I took her storeroom; my son had the bedroom. We parted calmly, no rows, no dividing up stuff or blame. He wanted to LIVE a happier life — I was so worn out, I felt relief… No need to cook meals, wash his clothes, iron, fold, hang — I could use that time to rest. By then, my health was shot — back, joints, diabetes, thyroid, nerves. For the first time ever, I took annual leave and focused on getting well. I kept my side jobs. Got better. Hired a great tradesman, got a proper bathroom remodel. That was real joy — HAPPINESS for myself! All these years, I sent my successful kids money instead of presents at birthdays, New Year’s, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day. Then came the grandkids. So I couldn’t give up work. Never spent money on myself. Rarely got any congratulations back, just occasional replies. No presents. Worst of all, neither child invited me to their wedding. My daughter said honestly, “Mum, you wouldn’t really fit in with the crowd. There’ll be people from the Cabinet Office.” My son — I only knew he’d married from my daughter, after the big day. At least they didn’t ask for money for weddings… Neither child ever visits, no matter how much I invite. My daughter said, ‘Why would I go to the back of beyond?’ (Our city’s got a million people.) My son — ‘I’m busy, Mum!’ There’s a train to London every hour! Only two hours away… What would I call that period? Probably ‘Life of suppressed emotions.’ I lived like Scarlett O’Hara — “I’ll think about that tomorrow.” Bottled up tears and pains, from bafflement to despair. Like a robot programmed only to work. Then the factory was sold to Londoners, reorganisation happened. Us older staff were made redundant; overnight, I lost two jobs, but got early retirement out of it. My pension is £800… Try living on that. Luckily, a cleaning job opened up in our five-storey Victorian block — went to scrub stairwells — another £800. Still pack and clean on weekends at the supermarket, decent pay per shift. Hardest bit is being on my feet all day. Started fixing the kitchen myself bit by bit, hired my neighbour to fit a new one — did a good job, not too pricey. Saved up again. Wanted to redo the rooms, update some furniture. Didn’t have myself in the plan, though! What did I buy for myself? Just basic food, and never much at that. Medication — costs a lot. Rent’s up every year. Ex-husband says, ‘Sell the flat, it’s a great area, you’ll get a fair price. Buy yourself a one-bed.’ But I can’t let it go. Memories of my nan. I don’t remember my parents. My nan raised me. My whole life is in this flat. Managed to stay friendly with my ex. We talk now and then, like old neighbours. He’s fine. Never talks about his private life. Once a month he brings shopping — potatoes, veg, rice, bottled water. Heavy stuff. Refuses money. Says delivery brings rubbish, bruised and rotten. I agree. Inside, everything feels stuck — all tight and pinched. Just keep going. Work a lot. No dreams, nothing I want for myself. Only see daughter and grandkids on her Instagram. Glimpse my son’s life on my daughter-in-law’s Instagram. I’m glad they’re well. All healthy, enjoying lovely holidays, fancy restaurants. Maybe I never gave them enough love. That’s why there’s no love for me. My daughter sometimes asks how I am. I always say I’m fine. Never complain. My son sometimes sends WhatsApp voice notes: ‘Hi Mum, hope you’re OK.’ He once said he didn’t want to hear about family problems, couldn’t handle drama. So I stopped telling him anything, just reply, ‘Don’t worry, son, all’s well.’ I’d love to hug my grandchildren, but I suspect they don’t know they have a living grandma — a pensioner and cleaner. Probably, officially, grandma’s long since gone… I don’t even remember the last time I bought something just for myself, except maybe some underwear or socks, the cheapest kind. Never been to a salon for my nails… Once a month I get my hair cut at the barber’s on the corner. Dye my hair myself. My one comfort — same dress size in youth and now, so I don’t ever update my wardrobe. And I’m terrified that one day I won’t be able to get out of bed — the back pain never stops. Scared of being bedridden. Maybe I shouldn’t have lived this way — no breaks, no small pleasures, always working and always putting everything off ‘for later.’ And where is ‘later?’ It’s gone… My soul is empty… my heart is numb… Emptiness all around me… I don’t blame anyone. And I can’t blame myself, either. I worked all my life and I’m still working. Building up a little safety net, just in case I can’t carry on. Not much, but it’s something… Although, truthfully, I know if I can’t get up, I won’t go on living… don’t want to be a burden to anyone. And you know the saddest thing? No one ever gave me flowers… EVER… Wouldn’t it be funny if the first bouquet comes to my grave… honestly, it’d be laughable…

The Syndrome of a Life Forever Postponed… A Confession from a Sixty-Year-Old Woman Susan: This

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God Rest His Soul: Are You the Widow of the Deceased? I Have Something Important to Share—A Last Confession Left by Him on His Deathbed…

God rest his soul. Youre the widow, arent you? Ive got something important to tell you something the late Mr.

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Another Year Together: Arkady and Natalie’s Unbreakable Bond, Memory Lost and Found, Illness, Miraculous Encounters, Loyal Friends, and the Joy of Welcoming the New Year as One

Another whole year together… Lately, Arthur Robinson hadnt been going out alone. He stopped after

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The Bench in the Courtyard Victor Stevens stepped out into the courtyard just after one. A dull ache throbbed in his temples—last night he’d finished off the remaining salads, and this morning had been spent taking down Christmas decorations and boxing up ornaments. The flat was far too quiet. He tugged on his woollen hat, tucked his phone into his pocket, and headed downstairs, holding the banister out of habit. On this January afternoon, the courtyard looked almost staged: footpaths cleared, untouched snowdrifts, not a soul in sight. Victor brushed off the bench by the second entrance; the snow slipped softly from the wooden slats. It was a perfect spot for thinking, especially when it was empty—five minutes of peace before heading back home. “Mind if I join you?” came a man’s voice. Victor turned his head. Tall fellow in a navy jacket, mid-fifties. His face looked vaguely familiar. “Plenty of room—take a seat,” Victor replied, shuffling over. “Which flat are you in?” “Forty-three, second floor. Just moved in three weeks ago. I’m Michael.” “Victor Stevens,” he said automatically, shaking the outstretched hand. “Welcome to our quiet corner.” Michael pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Do you mind?” “Go ahead, smoke away.” Victor hadn’t smoked in over a decade, but the scent of tobacco unexpectedly brought to mind his years in the local paper’s newsroom. He caught himself wanting to inhale and quickly pushed the urge aside. “Have you lived here long?” Michael asked. “Since ‘87. This whole block was just built back then.” “I used to work nearby at the Community Arts Centre. Sound engineer by trade.” Victor sat up, surprised. “With Valery Harper, right?” “That’s him! How did you—?” “Did a feature on him once. Back in ’89, for the big anniversary concert. Remember when ‘August’ played?” “I could tell you all about that show!” Michael laughed. “They brought in this monster of a speaker and the power supply kept sparking…” The conversation flowed on easily. Names came up, stories surfaced—some funny, some sad. Victor found himself thinking he ought to head home, but every topic led to another tangent: musicians, gear, backstage secrets. He hadn’t had a long chat like this in ages. Towards the end in the newsroom, he only wrote urgent articles, and since retiring he’d nearly become a hermit. He convinced himself solitude was easier—no attachments, no dependencies. But now it felt like something inside was melting. “You know,” Michael stubbed out his third cigarette, “I have the whole archive at home. Posters, photographs. Concert tapes—recorded them myself. If you’d be interested…” Why bother, Victor thought. He’d have to visit, make conversation. What if Michael wanted to be mates—they’d upend his usual routine. And what would he see that was new, anyway? “I wouldn’t mind a look,” he replied. “When’s good?” “Tomorrow, say fiveish? I’ll be back from work then.” “Alright,” Victor took out his phone, pulled up contacts. “Take my number. If anything changes, give me a ring.” That evening, he couldn’t sleep. The conversation replayed in his mind; old stories resurfaced. More than once, he picked up the phone—almost called to cancel, made up an excuse. But he didn’t. The next morning, he woke to a call. The screen read: “Michael, neighbour.” “Still up for it?” Michael’s voice was a bit hesitant. “I am,” Victor replied. “I’ll see you at five.”

Bench in the Courtyard Victor Stephens stepped out into the courtyard just after one. A dull ache pulsed