**A Strangers Sorrow**
I woke feeling wretched this morning. My head spun strangely, and every now and then, my vision blurred. A part of me had hoped I wouldnt wake at all, but my stubborn body refused to give in. And Sophieshes not here anymore
I sighed deeply.
The queue at the supermarket till had grown, and the woman in front was taking her time. It irritated me. She was elegant, well-kept, even beautiful, standing there utterly composed. Her daughter had asked for oat milk, so shed stopped in. A faint, rueful smile touched her lips. No point lying to yourselfgoing home didnt appeal to her. Lately, home had become uncomfortable. Not the house itselftheyd made it lovely, bought a fine flat with their earnings. But the laughter had faded. Once, she and Ben had been like that young couple behind her, giggling and whispering.
A scruffy lad with a childish dimple in his neck was wrapped around his girlfriend. She mightve been pretty, if not for the blackblack nails, black lips, black hair, one side shaved. Some sort of rebellious statement. But the boy gazed at her as if she were the sun, tearing off pieces of a fresh baguette for her, stars in his eyes.
Ridiculous. The shop was empty, yet the queue dragged. The last man, a businessman with a briefcase, yoghurt, and pastries, huffed impatiently.
I noticed all this from the corner of my eyeold habits from my army days. A scout. But my hands wouldnt cooperate, fumbling with the worn clasp of my wallet, dropping coins, struggling to focus.
The cashier snapped at meWasting time, holding everyone up.
I hurried to leave. Never mind the bread, too expensive anywaywholegrain or some such nonsense. I smirked bitterly. Sophie and I had lived modestly. Barely scraping by. A small pension, enough to be grateful for, I suppose. But lately, our little flat had begun to crumbleleaky taps, burst pipes. Expenses. At my age, I couldnt fix it myself. And Sophie she hadnt lived to see it.
Sophie and I met during the war. Shed been just a girl, lying about her age to enlist. A nurse, fearless, crawling across battlefields to drag the wounded to safety. I was a scout. Near the wars end, I was capturedunconscious, no papers. The Germans never realised I was Jewish. When the camp was liberated, I was nearly dead. Sophie saved me, nursed me back, even slipped me another mans papers. Clever, my Sophie.
No children. The war had taken that from her. We worked hard, lived simply. In the seventies, when Sophie fell ill, we moved to Englandonly the doctors here could help. We were afraid, always afraid. Never made demands, never complained.
And after Sophie was gone the days blurred into grey.
At the till, I finally stopped fumbling with my coins, muttered an apologythen my legs gave way beneath me.
The elegant woman was the first to reach me, cradling my head. The scruffy lad rolled up his jacket as a pillow; his girlfriend called an ambulance. The businessman fanned air toward me with his hat.
Strange, isnt it? This small, proud country, always grumbling about too many outsiders, yet somehow, no sorrow is ever truly a strangers.
By the time the paramedics arrived, the queue had become a team. Smiles softened, eyes warmed.
Emilyshe was a doctortook charge. My pills had been in my pocket all along, forgotten. She noted the details, called the next day to check.
I was fine, ready to go home. But who would fetch me?
Emily drove me herself. Why this frail old man had lodged in her heart, she couldnt say. But stepping inside, she froze. A rusted basin sat in the kitchen, catching drips from the ceiling. A lonely old man in a crumbling flatthe image haunted her.
The next evening, she knocked sharply. No answer, but voices and laughter spilled from inside. She stepped in, stunned. There I was, cheerful in my armchair. And on the floor, cross-legged before methe rebellious couple, utterly spellbound.
Emily, dearcome in! I tried to rise, to offer my seat.
They started with small repairspainting, fixing the tap. But the old building had waited too long. Soon, plaster crumbled, and the project snowballed.
I protestedI needed nothing. Yet, my heart felt lighter than it had in years.
Emily, the lad, and the girl worked tirelessly. The businessman, a neighbour, turned out to be a decent plasterer. He bought supplies himself, worked methodically.
Then one Tuesday, amid the chaos, Emilys husband, Ben, appeared.
Bloody hellwhatve you lot done?
She gaped. Shed told him about me, the repairsbut shed assumed he hadnt listened. Lately, theyd barely spoken.
RightJosh, take notes! Ben, a high-flying tech executive, rolled up his sleeves, checking wiring, damp. Skills from his youth resurfaced.
He rallied his firm: *A veteran. Alone. Needs help.*
Emily spread the word. The businessman did too. The rebels posted online.
Soon, service teams arrivedwalls painted, doors replaced. The CEOs nephew brought new windows. Neighbors donated leftover tiles. Strangers brought kitchen cabinets. Bit by bit, the flat transformed.
And Emilyshe glowed. Took leave for the first time in years. Ben rushed over daily, teasing, brushing paint onto her cheek just to make her laugh. Even stole a kiss.
The rebels softened. The girl wiped away her dark makeupbeneath it, a sweet-faced lass with freckles. The boy, too exhausted for rebellion, found something quieter instead.
Two lost souls, they adored each otherand, unexpectedly, me.
As for meI watched them, these cast-off children, and my restored home and began to wonder.
The businessman turned out to be decent. We played chess, debated politics. He even sorted my pensionturns out, he worked at the DWP.
And the youngsters? They dug through archives, museums. Months of emails, rejectionsuntil they restored my medals, my name.
Emdont go overboard! Ben laughed, fitting the new tap. Next thing, youll drag me to Zimbabwe to rebuild houses!
A towel sailed toward him, catching the light like a scarlet sail.
Outside, a grocer argued with the baker. Kids shrieked. Cars honked.
But in this old soldiers flat, lives collided, laws bent, and paths changed course.
Because in this country, no sorrow is ever truly a strangers.
