Oliver sat in his wheelchair, gazing through the grimy hospital window at the courtyard below. His view was hardly inspiringjust a small garden with benches and flowerbeds, mostly empty, especially in winter when patients rarely ventured outside. He had been alone in the ward for a week since his roommate, Jake Thompson, was discharged. Jake had been lively, full of stories, and always ready to perform them with dramatic flairno surprise, since he was a third-year drama student. With him around, loneliness was impossible. Plus, Jakes mum visited daily, bringing homemade cakes, fruit, and sweets, which he generously shared. Now, without him, the room felt colder, and Oliver had never felt more isolated.
His gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a nurse. His heart sank. Instead of the cheerful young nurse, Emma, it was the stern, perpetually scowling Matron Editha woman who, in the two months Oliver had been here, had never once smiled. Her voice matched her expression: sharp, brusque, and thoroughly unpleasant.
“Still lounging about, Wilkinson? Back to bed!” she barked, brandishing a syringe filled with medication.
Oliver sighed, obediently wheeled himself to the bed, and let her help him lie down. With practised efficiency, she flipped him onto his stomach.
“Trousers down,” she ordered. He complied, bracing himselfbut felt nothing. Matron Edith was, at least, an expert with needles, a small mercy he silently appreciated.
As she examined the pale blue vein on his thin arm, he studied her face. *She must be retired by now,* he thought. *Probably stuck working because of a meagre pension. No wonder shes always in a foul mood.*
The needle slid in with barely a sting.
“Thats it, Wilkinson. Done. Has the doctor been in today?” she asked unexpectedly, already turning to leave.
“No,” Oliver shook his head. “Maybe later”
“Fine. And stop sitting by the windowyoull catch a chill. Skinny as a rake as it is,” she muttered on her way out.
He might have taken offence, but beneath her gruffness, he sensed something like concernnot that hed know. Oliver was an orphan. His parents had died in a house fire when he was four. His mother, in her final moments, had thrown him from a broken window into the snow, saving his life before the roof collapsed. The burns on his shoulder and his badly healed wrist were the only reminders he had of them.
No relatives had wanted him, so he grew up in care. His mother had given him soft green eyes, a quiet nature, and a dreamy disposition; his father had left him tall, lanky, and with a knack for numbers. But memories were scarcejust fragments, like flickering film reels: his mother laughing at a village fête, waving a bright flag; his father carrying him on his shoulders, the summer breeze warm on his cheeks. There had been a ginger cat, tooTommy or Toby, he couldnt quite recall. Everything else had burned.
No one visited him in hospital. At eighteen, the council had given him a small, bright room in a shared housefour flights up, no lift. He didnt mind solitude, but sometimes the loneliness hit hard. Watching families in parks or supermarkets made his chest ache.
Hed hoped to go to university but fell short on grades, settling for college instead. He liked his course, but his quiet, bookish nature made him an outsider. Girls werent interestedtoo shy, too serious. At eighteen, he looked sixteen. Soon, he was the odd one out, not that it bothered him much.
Then, two months ago, rushing to class on icy pavement, hed slipped in an underpass, shattering both legs. The breaks were bad, healing slowly, but lately thered been progress. Still, the thought of returning to his fourth-floor flat filled him with dreadno lift, no ramps, just endless stairs.
That afternoon, Dr. Bennett, the orthopaedic specialist, delivered good news. “Well, Oliver, your fractures are finally healing properly. Another fortnight, and youll be on crutches. No point keeping you hereyoull continue outpatient care. Someone picking you up?”
Oliver nodded silently.
“Good. Matron Edith will help you pack. Try not to end up back here, eh?”
As the doctor left, Olivers mind raced. How would he manage?
Matron Edith bustled in. “Still dawdling, Wilkinson? Youre discharged. Pack upMrs. Hughes is coming to change the sheets.”
As he stuffed his meagre belongings into a rucksack, he caught her watching him.
“Whyd you lie to the doctor?” she asked bluntly.
“About what?”
“Dont play daft. No ones coming for you. How will you get home?”
“Ill manage,” he muttered.
“With two broken legs? You wont.”
“Im not a child.”
She sat beside him, her expression unreadable. “Oliver, this isnt my business, but youll need help. You cant do this alone.”
“Ill figure it out.”
“You wont. Ive been doing this job long enough. Why argue like a stubborn child?”
“Even if youre right, why do you care?”
“Because youll stay with me. I live out in the countrysidejust two steps to the front door. Spare rooms yours till youre back on your feet. Im widowed, no kids”
Oliver gaped. Live with her? They were strangers. And yet
“Well?” she pressed.
“Its awkward. I dont want to impose.”
“Dont be daft. Its awkward trying to survive alone in a wheelchair with no lift. Socoming or not?”
He hesitated. But then he realisedthese past months, beneath the gruffness, she *had* cared. *”Wilkinson, eat your lunchtheyve got your favourite shepherds pie.” “Close that window, unless you fancy another fever.”* Small things, but more than anyone else had done.
“Ill come,” he said finally. “But Ive no money. My grant wont come till”
She cut him off, scowling. “You think Im charging you rent? Im offering because I *want* to.”
“I didnt mean”
“Enough. Wait in the staff room. My shift ends soon.”
Her cottage was small, neat, with lace curtains and a wood-burning stove. The spare room was cosy. At first, Oliver kept to himself, too shy to ask for anything.
“Stop moping,” she snapped one day. “Ask if you need something. Youre not a guest.”
He grew to love it therethe snow outside, the fire crackling, the smell of stew. It felt like home, like the childhood hed lost.
Weeks passed. The wheelchair was abandoned, then the crutches. At his final check-up, limping slightly, Oliver walked beside her, talking about catching up on college work.
“Take it slow,” she chided. “No running aboutdoctors orders.”
Theyd grown close. And Oliver knewhe didnt want to leave. Shed become family, though he couldnt bring himself to say it.
The next day, as he packed, he turnedand found her standing in the doorway, tears in her eyes. Without thinking, he hugged her tight.
“Stay, Oliver,” she whispered. “I dont want you to go.”
So he stayed. Years later, she sat proudly as his mother-of-the-groom at his wedding. And a year after that, she cradled his newborn daughtera little Edith, named for the woman whod given him a family again.
