**Wait for Me**
Oliver stepped off the train onto the platform and drew a deep breath. The air in his hometown felt different—unlike anywhere else in the world. He’d travelled to cities across the globe, but something always pulled him back here.
Walking familiar streets, he noticed small changes. There was his old courtyard, nestled between four red-brick apartment blocks—two long ones with five entrances each, and two shorter ones with just two. The courtyard was split: a playground with a slide, a sandbox, and old pull-up bars where swings and a climbing dome once stood. A scar above his eyebrow marked a fall from that dome. The other half was a fenced football pitch with a basketball hoop—flooded for ice skating in winter. Empty now. If there’d been a ball, Oliver would’ve kicked it straight into the goal, just like he used to.
Happy days. His mate Simon had moved to Scotland, married, two kids now. And Jake? Serving his second stint in prison. Life had scattered them all.
A man with a dog emerged from the stairwell, and Oliver called out to stop the door from locking. The dim bulb inside was barely any help—just like always. No matter how often stronger bulbs were screwed in, someone always swapped them back. How no one had broken their neck on those narrow, shadowed stairs was a mystery.
On the second floor, Oliver paused outside the old iron door. Valentina used to live here. Not Val or Tina—*Valentina*. That’s what she’d insisted on. His first love, hopelessly unrequited.
Back then, he’d ring the bell and dash up to his own flat on the third floor, waiting to hear her open the door. He almost did it again now—but he wasn’t as quick on the stairs these days, and a grown man shouldn’t play such games. Besides, he wasn’t even sure she still lived here.
Smirking, he climbed to his own floor. His mother always answered the door, even when his father was alive. He’d passed two years ago—Oliver had been at sea and missed the funeral.
He pressed the buzzer. The lock clicked, and the door cracked open. His mother’s face lit up, and she threw it wide, pulling him into a tight embrace.
“Oliver!” She held him at arm’s length. “Let me look at you.” Then hugged him again.
When his father was alive, she dyed her hair, styled it neatly. Now a streak of grey ran through the parting.
“You were in my dream last night—I knew you’d come! How long can you stay? Oh, standing in the doorway—come in!” She closed the door, clutching him once more.
After the first rush of joy, Oliver slipped off his shoes and found his old slippers waiting on the rack. His father’s were gone.
“Here, Mum.” He handed her a bag of gifts.
“You’re gift enough,” she said, peeking inside anyway. “I’ll put the kettle on. Are you hungry?” She bustled to the tiny kitchen—smaller than his ship’s cabin—and laid out plates.
“Silly me, forgot the bread. The shops won’t be open yet—” She faltered, blinking.
“Don’t worry. I’ll go later. Sit down.”
She did, and he took her work-worn hand. “How are you?”
“Getting by. And you? Still not married?” Her eyes dimmed.
“Not many women will wait half a year for a sailor.”
After breakfast, she started his favourite stew, and Oliver went for bread. Pausing again at Valentina’s door, he hesitated—then walked on.
Days later, he finally rang her bell. The lock clicked, and the door opened. His heart lurched. She was older, softer—but it suited her.
“Can I help you?” Her gaze swept over him.
“Sorry—” He stepped back toward the stairs.
“Oliver? Is that you?” Her voice stopped him.
*She remembered.*
***
“You missed the shot! We lost because of you!” Simon’s voice cracked with anger, nose sniffling.
“Who cares? We’ll win next time,” Oliver said, guilt pricking him.
“Yeah, right.” Simon stomped off. “If you can’t play, don’t bother.”
“*Me?* You let Lenny waltz right past you! Simon, wait—” Oliver grabbed his arm.
Simon shoved him. They scuffled, tumbling onto the grass.
“Stop it!” A girl’s sharp voice cut through.
They froze, panting. Simon brushed himself off and left. Oliver stared at the girl—then followed her. At her door, she turned.
“Why are you following me?”
“I live here too.”
“Same building? Look at you—your shirt’s torn.”
“It’s fine.”
“Come on, I’ll fix it.”
Inside, she threaded a needle.
“You live with the old lady here?”
“*I* live here. She’s gone. Take off your shoes and shirt.”
Oliver hesitated, then obeyed. At least it wasn’t his jeans.
She studied him. “How old are you?”
“Fourteen.”
“You’re well-built for your age. You’ll be handsome.” His face burned.
“Don’t just stand there—wash up.”
In the bathroom, he eyed a pink satin robe on the hook, running a finger over the smooth fabric.
Back in the living room, she sewed by the window. “Put the kettle on.”
Obedient, he lit the stove.
“Here.” She handed him the mended shirt.
“Thanks. You live alone?”
“Planning to rob me?” She smirked. “Cups are above the sink.”
Returning with chocolates, she poured tea. Oliver fumbled—scalding his hand. She blew on it gently, sending a shock through him. He bolted up.
“I should go.”
“Out of breath? Who’s chasing you?” his mother asked at home.
“Football.”
“Wash up. Dinner’s ready.”
He saw her often after that—Valentina. His chest tightened each time.
“Oi, staring again? Smitten?” Jake teased, spitting expertly. Oliver envied that—he could never spit like that.
“Piss off.”
Upstairs, he rang her bell—and stayed.
“What do you want?” she asked, door ajar.
“Nothing.”
“Then why come?” Her gaze pinned him.
“I—” He shifted.
“Come in. I’m Valentina. Not Val. *Valentina.* Got it?”
“Oliver.”
“Fighting over a girl?”
“I missed a goal.”
“Going pro?”
“Nah. Captain, like my grandad.”
Her eyes flickered with interest. “Come in.”
Inside, a white dress peeked from a wardrobe. He nudged the door—a wedding gown. Guilt prickled.
“I’m getting married,” she said behind him. He jumped. She shut the wardrobe. “Not sure I want to.”
They were the same height. Her neck had soft down—he ached to kiss it.
“You don’t seem happy,” he whispered.
She turned sharply. “Why are you here?”
Silence stretched.
“Shouldn’t you go?” Then—unexpectedly—she kissed his cheek, lingering.
Upstairs, he touched the spot, dazed.
Later, he found her crying, her wedding dress in shreds.
“He’s gone. For good.”
“Maybe he’ll come back.”
She laughed bitterly. “Go home.”
Months later, he saw her with another man, arm in arm. Jealousy choked him.
After school, Oliver left for maritime college in Plymouth. Returning on break, he rang her bell—a muscular man answered.
“Yeah?”
“Max, who is it?” Valentina called.
Oliver fled.
***
Now, years later, they stood close in her hallway. He towered over her.
“Made captain yet?”
“First mate. But I will.”
“You married?”
“No. Women don’t like waiting.”
“I’d wait,” she said softly.
“Then I’ll come back. For you.”
Her eyes shimmered. “Will you?”
He kissed her—finally.
At home, his mother clattered dishes. “She’s not for you. Too many men. Too old.”
“Mum—”
“Find a nice girl. My friend’s daughter—” She winced, sitting heavily.
That leave, Oliver spent every night with Valentina.
“Your mother hates me,” she murmured once. “She’s right—you need someone young.”
“Why?”
“She looks away when I pass. Does she know?”
“She guesses.”
“And then what?”
“I’ll sail. Will you wait?”
“Will you come back?”
He kissed her instead of answering.
At the station, his mother saw him off. He’d said goodbye to Valentina the night before.
Now, at sea, he imagined returning—climbing the stairs, ringing her bell. She’d open the door, just asHe held onto that image until the day his ship returned, and at last, he climbed those familiar steps, pressed the bell, and there she stood—waiting, just as she’d promised.
