Kostik sat in his wheelchair, gazing through the grimy window at the street outside. Luck had not been on his side.

Tommy sat in his wheelchair, staring through the grimy hospital window at the empty courtyard below. The view wasnt exactly cheeringjust a small, tidy garden with benches and flower beds, barely used now that winter had set in. Hed been alone in his room for a week since his mate, Jake Turner, got discharged. Jake was a right laugh, always cracking jokes and doing impressions like a proper actorwhich he was, studying drama at uni. With him around, the days flew by. Plus, Jakes mum brought him stacks of homemade scones and biscuits, which hed always share. Now the room felt dead quiet, and Tommys loneliness hit harder than ever.

His gloomy thoughts were cut short when the nurse walked in. His heart sankinstead of sweet, cheerful Daisy, it was stern old Margaret. In the two months hed been here, hed never once seen her smile. Her voice matched her face: sharp, no-nonsense, grating.

“Oi, Carter! Off that chair and onto the bedsharpish!” she barked, already prepping the syringe.

Tommy sighed, wheeled himself over, and let her help him lie flat. She flipped him onto his stomach with practised ease.

“Trousers down,” she ordered. He obeyed, bracing himself but felt nothing. Margaret was brutal with words but gentle with needles, and for that, he was grateful.

*How old is she?* he wondered, watching her examine his bony arm. *Must be near retirement. Bet her pensions rubbishthats why shes always in a mood.*

The needle slipped into his faint blue vein with barely a sting.

“Done. Seen the doctor today?” she asked, packing up.

“Not yet,” Tommy muttered.

“Wait, then. And quit sulking by that windowyoull catch your death, looking like a drowned rat.”

He almost bristled, but beneath her roughness, he sensed something like concern. Not that hed knowcare wasnt exactly familiar.

Tommy was an orphan. His parents died in a house fire when he was four. His mum saved him, tossing him out a window into the snow seconds before the roof collapsed. All he had left was a burn on his shoulder, a wonky wrist, and fragments of memory: village fairs, his dads shoulders under him, a ginger tomcat called Whiskers. No photos, no familyjust foster homes.

At eighteen, the council gave him a tiny flat in a grim tower block. He didnt mind solitude, but sometimes, watching kids with their parents, the loneliness crushed him.

Hed wanted uni but ended up at college instead, studying engineering. Quiet and bookish, he never fit in with his laddish classmates or caught girls eyestoo shy, too scrawny, looking years younger than he was.

Then, two months ago, rushing to class on icy pavement, hed slipped in the underpass and shattered both legs. Healing was slow, but today, Dr. Harris finally said the words: “Youre free to go, lad. Just crutches for a bit. Someone picking you up?”

Tommy nodded, lying.

Margaret cornered him later. “Youre full of it, Carter. Whos fetching you?”

“Ill manage,” he grumbled.

“Bollocks. You cant even climb stairs yet.” She eyed him, then sighed. “Stay with me. Got a spare room. Once youre steady, you can bolt.”

He gaped. Live with *her*? But the alternativedragging himself up four flights alonewas worse.

Days passed in her cosy cottage: crackling fires, stews that tasted like childhood. Slowly, his legs healed. By the time he ditched the crutches, he dreaded leaving.

Packing his duffel, he turnedand found Margaret crying in the doorway. Without thinking, he hugged her.

“Stay, Tommy,” she whispered.

He did. Years later, she sat beaming at his wedding. And when his daughter was born, he placed the baby in her arms”Margaret,” they named her, after the woman whod taught him what family felt like.

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Kostik sat in his wheelchair, gazing through the grimy window at the street outside. Luck had not been on his side.
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