**A Strangers Sorrow**
Samuel Whitaker had felt poorly since morninga strange dizziness, his vision blurred now and then. Hed half-hoped not to wake at all, but his stubborn body refused to give up. And Sophie wasnt here with him He sighed heavily.
The queue at the supermarket checkout had grown, and the woman ahead was taking too long. Samuel fidgeted. She was elegant, well-kept, even pretty, yet entirely unruffled. Her daughter had asked for oat milk, so here she was. A faint, bittersweet smile touched her lips. *No use lyinghome isnt where you want to be lately.* The flat theyd bought, all sleek and modern, felt hollow now. No, not the flat*them*. Theyd stopped talking. Once, she and Ben had laughed like that young couple behind her, chirping away
The scruffy lad with the tattooed neck clung to his girlfriend, doting. Shed have been pretty if not for the black smudged round her eyes, the dyed hair, the shaved temple. Some rebellious statement. But he didnt carehe gazed at her, tearing bits of baguette for her, stars in his eyes.
*Ridiculous.* The shop was empty, yet the queue dragged. A businessman with a folder, yoghurt, and pastries huffed impatiently at the back.
Samuel noticed it all from the corner of his eyeold army habit. Scouts instinct. But his hands wouldnt cooperate, fumbling with his worn wallet, coins slipping through his fingers.
The cashier snapped at the “doddery old fool,” holding everyone up. Samuel hurried off. *Forget the breadtoo dear anyway, all that organic nonsense.* He smirked bitterly.
He and Sophie had lived modestly. Pennies from the state, and grateful for itpensioners, dependents. But the flat had gone to ruin lately: leaky taps, burst pipes. Expenses. At ninety, he couldnt fix it himself. And Sophie wasnt here
Theyd met in the war. Sophie, just a girl, had lied about her age to enlist. A nurse, fearless, dragging wounded men from battlefieldsroutine for her. Samuel was a scout. Near the wars end, hed been captured, unconscious, no papers. The Germans never guessed he was Jewishdidnt look it. When the camp was liberated, he was half-dead. Sophie saved him, even slipped him a dead soldiers papers. *Clever girl, his Sophie.*
No childrenGod hadnt granted it. Too much strain on her in those fields. Theyd moved to England in the 70s when Sophie fell ill. Terrified over documents, sleepless nights. But treatment was only here. So they came.
Spent their lives afraid.
Never dared complain.
Even here, it wasnt easy. Sophie recovered, but survivors like them? Some saw heroes; others, burdens. And “those Russians” werent exactly beloved. A hard life
After Sophie died, the days dragged, grey and numb. Bread and milk were enoughwhat more did an old man need?
The old man at the till finally stopped fussing with his meagre coins, murmured an apology, then sagged sideways to the floor.
The elegant woman reached him first, cradling his head. The tattooed lad rolled his jacket as a pillow; his girlfriend called an ambulance; the businessman flapped his hat for air.
*Funny, that.* A small, stubborn nation, quick to grumble about “bloody immigrants,” yet never blind to anothers pain
By the time paramedics arrived, the strangers had bondedsmiles warmer, eyes kinder.
Eleanor, being a doctor, took charge. Samuel had forgotten his pills, but with them, he improved. She noted his details and, out of habit, rang the hospital next day.
He was well enough to leavebut whod fetch him?
Eleanor drove him home. Why this frail old man gripped her heart, she couldnt say. Then she saw his flata bucket catching ceiling drips in the kitchenand her stomach turned. A lonely old man in a crumbling home.
Next evening, she knocked. No answer, but voices and laughter spilled out. Inside, Samuel sat beaming in his chair, while the young couple from the shop knelt before him, spellbound, like children at a storytellers feet.
“Eleanor, dear, come in!” Samuel tried to rise, ever the gentleman
They started smallpaint the walls, fix the tap. But the old building crumbled at their touch, repairs snowballing.
Samuel protestedhe needed nothing! Yet his heart hadnt felt so light in years. Guilt warred with joy at the sudden kindness.
The tattooed lad and his girl worked tirelessly, hauling rubble, scrubbing floors. The businessmanturned out he lived nearbywas a decent plasterer. Bought supplies himself, worked steadily.
Then, mid-chaos, Eleanors Ben appeared.
“Bloody hell, whats this mess?!”
She gaped. Shed *mentioned* the old man, the repairs but Ben had seemed too busy lately to listen. Too distant.
“RightJosh, take notes!” Ben, who ran a tech firm, sleeves rolled up, crawled under beds checking damp. *He used to be handy,* she marvelled.
He rallied his team: “Veteran. Alone. Needs help.”
So did Eleanor.
And the businessman.
And the kids on Instagram.
First came the IT ladswalls painted, doors hung in a flash. The directors nephew brought new windows”Client cancelled. Perfect for the old boy.”
Neighbours donated leftover tilesenough for one room. Then kitchen cupboards arrived, strangers dropping them off. *Howd they hear?!*
Bit by bit, the whole street chipped in.
And Eleanorshe glowed, took leave for the first time in years. Ben rushed over daily, handy again, smearing paint on her cheek just to make her laugh. Even stole a kiss. Twice.
The rebel kids softened. Orphans from broken homes, shipped here as children, theyd clung to each other. Now the girl washed off her black makeupbeneath it, a sweet-faced lass with freckles. The lad, too tired for rebellion, found new purpose.
They adored Samuel, whod unwittingly shown them what mattered.
And Samuel? He watched themthese cast-off kidsand his restored flat, murmuring plans
The businessman? A gem. Chess games and civil political debates. Turned out he worked for the DWPsorted Samuels pension properly.
The kids dug deeper, scouring archives, military records. Months of emails, rejections till they restored Samuels true name, his medalsposthumous, but *his*.
“Elliedont go overboard!” Ben laughed, fitting the new tap. “Next month, youll have us rebuilding houses in Botswana!”
The towel she threw billowed like a scarlet sail against the fresh-painted framea dreamers hope fulfilled.
Outside, the grocer bickered with the baker. Kids shrieked. Cars honked.
But in the old soldiers flat, lives collided, physics bent, and paths reroutedall hurtling toward something new.
Because in this country, no sorrow is ever truly a strangers.
**Lesson learned:** Kindness, once kindled, spreads faster than fireand warms more than any hearth.
