Anton woke up to the sound of a frying pan sizzling in the kitchen, the kettle boiling, and the smell of fried potatoes filling the air. His dad, Peter, was up before dawn, hustling to get ready for a fishing trip. The old motorbike, groaning and creaking, waited outside while Peter packed sandwiches, a thermos, and checked his gear. He tried to be quiet, but he still woke his wife, Marina. She’d felt unwell the night before but thought she’d sleep it off. Peter, cheerful about the morning ahead on the lake, had no idea the day would bring not relaxation, but a real shock.
Once the motorbike rumbled away, Marina tried to sleep, but suddenly felt worse—sharp pain twisted her stomach, her head spun. She called out, “Anton! Call an ambulance, love!”
Still half-asleep, Anton rushed in, saw his mother pale as a sheet, and grabbed the phone straight away. But the ambulance took forever. He gave her water, tucked her under blankets, feeling hopeless—until, without thinking, he hugged her tight. Then… he felt it. Her weakness seeped into him. A minute later, she sat up, color returning to her lips. “Anton, love… it’s gone. Like it never happened.”
He stepped back, breath heavy. His head throbbed—*this again*. Since childhood, he’d somehow *pulled* pain from others. Like some ancient, knowing thing inside him let him heal—but at his own expense.
Meanwhile, Peter ran into trouble. His motorbike stalled on a wooded bend, and a speeding Jeep nearly ploughed into him. The driver, a bloke in a posh jacket, jumped out, flustered. “You all right, mate? Christ, I’m sorry—look, just don’t call anyone, yeah? Here—take this, get yourself a new bike!” He shoved two thick wads of cash into Peter’s hands, then sped off.
Peter towed the bike home after dark. Marina met him on the doorstep, eyes wet. “Where *were* you? I nearly died today, and you—what about your bloody fish?”
Peter, pale and dazed, clenched the money. “This… this is for my life, Marina. Could’ve ended today.”
Soon, a sturdy second-hand car sat in their drive. Peter beamed like a kid. “Now we’ve got wheels for life!”
Anton, though, stayed in bed recovering. Marina huffed, “Useless, the lot of you—one’s always fishing, the other staring at walls! You ought to find a wife, but no, you’re just a loner!”
But Anton perked up soon enough. A job came up—fitting a kitchen in a new house. And there, he met Evelyn. She just stood, watching him work. Didn’t say a word, but her gaze was warm, kind.
Next day, he went back—claimed he needed to fit extra handles. She offered tea. Cakes, quiet, smiles. Then, out of nowhere, Anton said, “What if we… went out? Cinema, maybe. Meet each other’s parents. Then… maybe a wedding?”
Evelyn didn’t hesitate. “I’d like that.”
And just like that, their story began. The parents were chuffed—Evelyn charmed everyone. Anton got promoted to foreman, work went smoothly, and soon… they were expecting a baby.
Sometimes, he remembered his gran’s words: “Some folks don’t have the strength to live. They just sit, going nowhere. People like you, Anton love—you’ve got to be there for them. But don’t forget to look after yourself too.”
And he tried. Never let on how much those “transfers” drained him. Stayed quiet when they called him odd. Just admitted to himself—if this was a gift, so be it. At least now, he wasn’t alone.
