**The Caretaker of Our Estate**
Charlotte walks home in the early autumn twilight. The streetlamps flicker unevenly, as always, and the courtyard is left in darkness. In front of the building entrance, a deep puddle usually forms every autumn. Parked cars make it impossible to avoid—but tonight, after a day of drizzling rain, the puddle is gone.
She pushes open the front door and glances back. Light spills from the entrance onto the wet pavement, glistening faintly. *“Not my imagination. How odd.”*
The lift waits for her on the ground floor—unusual, since it’s usually stuck upstairs in the evenings. The doors slide open, inviting her in. *“Strange. Definitely something odd going on,”* Charlotte thinks as she steps inside. She presses the button and catches a quick glimpse of herself in the smudged mirror.
A tired, dull face stares back, eyes heavy with weariness. She looks away and absently tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Just then, the lift shudders to a stop, doors rattling open to let her out.
*“Home,”* she murmurs, clicking the light switch and startling the shadows crowding her flat.
Six months ago, her mother passed away. Since then, the empty flat has echoed with loneliness, silence, and memories. Charlotte never rushes back anymore—instead, she lingers at the newspaper office. Her colleagues vanish by six, but she stays, tidying her desk, planning the next day’s work. They dislike her, calling her fussy and inflexible. She just believes in doing things properly—and expects the same from others.
Before, she had her sick mother waiting at home—no time to wallow. A strict schoolteacher, Mum had raised her with high standards. Charlotte learned to excel, though not without resistance. Now she’s just as demanding.
There was only one serious romance in her life. It fell apart before engagement. Mum was already unwell, and Charlotte refused to move in with her fiancé, unwilling to leave her alone. He wouldn’t consider living in a cramped flat with a future mother-in-law in poor health.
So at thirty-two, Charlotte remains alone. The men at work are either married or notorious skirt-chasers. Outside the office, she has no social life. First, it was Mum. Now, exhaustion and apathy keep her closed off. Another night looms—just her, the telly, or a book.
On Saturday, she wakes late, stretches, and peers outside. A light dusting of snow blankets the estate, marked by dark footprints. Not freezing—it’ll melt soon. The sight stirs something in her, a sudden urge to walk across the untouched layer, make her own mark. She hurries to the bathroom.
*Is happiness really this simple?* Fresh snow, a quiet weekend ahead. She dresses, eats breakfast, and steps outside.
*“Charlotte, love—off to the shops? Could you grab me a loaf and a baguette?”*
She turns—old Mrs. Wilkins leans from her ground-floor window.
*“Of course. Anything else?”*
The woman hesitates. *“No, just the bread. Ta.”* The window shuts.
Well, now she has a purpose. Charlotte walks carefully, avoiding the trodden paths.
Handing over the bread, she asks, *“What happened to the puddle by the entrance?”*
*“New caretaker sorted it. Lovely man, isn’t he?”*
*“Where’s the old one?”* Not that she cares. It’s just polite conversation.
*“Passed last week. Come in, I’ll tell you.”*
With nothing better to do, Charlotte steps into the cramped flat, crowded with heavy, outdated furniture.
*“Few days back, I saw this man on the bench in the courtyard. Miserable-looking, but not drunk—I can spot drinkers, my late husband was one. He wasn’t a layabout. Just sat there, freezing. I asked what he was waiting for—his eyes were so sad. Told him to come inside, warm up. Then I said, *‘We’ve lost our caretaker. Place is drowning in leaves. Go to the council—get the job.’* Look how tidy he’s kept it! Polite, too. Lives in the storage room. Nowhere else to go, I reckon. Speaking of—”* She nods toward the window.
A tall man crosses the courtyard, not old but scruffy stubble adding years to his face.
The next day, Charlotte watches from her window as the new caretaker scrapes the pavement with a broom. *Swish-swish, swish-swish.* The rhythm is hypnotic. He doesn’t look like an uneducated labourer. Curiosity gnaws at her.
Soon, chance brings them together. Taking out the rubbish, she stumbles—a strong hand steadies her.
*“Thank you,”* she says, recognising him.
Under a knitted beanie (likely the old caretaker’s), sharp grey eyes study her. The stubble gives him an unkempt look.
*“You’re the new caretaker,”* she says.
*“Suppose so,”* he mutters, walking off.
*“Charming,”* Charlotte thinks, dumping the bin bag.
Another day, returning from the shops, she blocks his path as he carries boxes from the storage room. She greets him and steps aside.
*“Why’re you doing this job? It’s for pensioners—you’re young,”* she calls after him.
*“What’s it to you?”* He half-turns but doesn’t stop.
*“Just curious.”*
He ignores her, radiating unwillingness to share his life—especially with this “pale little moth.”
*“Rude,”* she huffs, but he’s already gone.
*“Strange man. Why do I even care? He probably thinks I’m desperate, clinging to a caretaker.”* Annoyed, she hurries inside.
She starts watching him from her window—sweeping, clearing the playground. No, not a man who’s given up. Educated, clearly. Something went wrong in his life.
Mrs. Wilkins shares gossip: *“The girls at the council say his business collapsed. Wife kicked him out. Pride’s all he’s got left.”*
*“How awful,”* Charlotte murmurs.
She’s the first to greet him outside. He nods gruffly. Always alone in that cramped storage room. He’ll waste away like this.
One evening, she slips a note under his door: *“Flat 14. Come for tea if you like.”* Just kindness—she doesn’t expect him.
Yet hours later, her bell rings. There he stands—still scowling, still in that ridiculous hat.
*“Why?”* he demands, shaking the note.
*“People should help each other.”*
He shakes his head dismissively.
*“What if I’m a thief? A psychopath? You’d regret inviting me.”*
*“You? No. Your eyes are kind. Come in.”*
He does. She heats soup, serves him roast potatoes. His silence unnerves her. His hands—unused to manual work—are blistered.
*“Parents?”* she asks.
*“Mum. Lives up north.”*
*“I’ve no one,”* she blurts, then regrets it. *What if he* is *dangerous?*
*“I’ll go. The food was good. But—don’t do this again.”* He leaves.
She feels insulted. She offered warmth, a meal—and he dismissed it. Fine. Forget him.
Yet she thinks of him constantly, hoping for another encounter. He ignores her.
Days before New Year’s, she buys a prickly Christmas tree. Fumbling for keys, the door slams shut behind her.
*“Bloody hell!”*
*“Need help?”* The caretaker appears. He lifts the tree effortlessly, waits for her to unlock the door.
*“Thanks,”* she says at the lift. But he follows her in, carries the tree to her flat—then leaves.
She shuts the door—and panics. Her handbag’s gone. *“Idiot! Serves you right—trusting a stranger!”*
She races downstairs. His footsteps echo below.
*“Wait!”* she shouts.
He stops between floors, waits for her.
*“Where’s my bag?!”*
*“What bag?”* He smirks.
*“Brown handbag—I left it on the side table!”*
A neighbour’s door opens. He grabs her elbow, pulls her upstairs.
*“Let go!”*
*“Proving I’m not a thief.”* His eyes burn with anger.
Back in the flat, he finds the bag wedged behind the table.
*“Look properly before accusing people,”* he snaps.
*“I’m sorry—truly.”*
He leaves without a glance.
*“Stupid, stupid,”* she berates herself. *“First the note, then this. Humiliating.”*
Now she avoids him, head down when they cross paths. OnOn New Year’s Eve, the doorbell rings again, and this time when she opens it, he’s standing there holding a sprig of mistletoe and a hesitant smile, and suddenly the lonely year behind her feels far away.
