Alright, Landlord, Let’s Head to the New Place. You’ll Be Living with Me – It’s a One-Bed, But We’ll Make It Work.

“Well then, my dear fellow, lets be off to the new place. Youll live with mejust a one-bedroom flat, mind you, but well manage.”

“Goodness, Im thirty-eight and live alone. Never in my life have I done anyone harm or spoken a harsh word. Everything I have, Ive earned myself: the flat, the little cottage in the countryside.

Not that Im complainingmy parents helped where they could. Im the youngest of five. Ive two close friends from my school days, though we meet rarely now theyre married.

I cant stand it when their husbands, after a pint too many, make crude remarks about fixing my loneliness behind their wives backs. Ive had to slap sense into them more than once and remind them a friends husband is no man of mine. Thank heavens, they got the message.”

She fell silent for a moment. Evelyn turned back to the window, her eyes heavy with sorrow, thinking of all the happy souls outsideand the miserable ones, just like her. She looked up at the crucifix on the wall and whispered:

“Ive never asked You for much, but now I kneel before You. Grant me, Lord, what others might scorn. Im tired of being alone. Send me a little creature, a stray perhaps even a lost soul.”

She sighed. “Im timid, Lord, unsure of myself. People think me gloomy, self-absorbed, but Im just hesitantafraid of saying the wrong thing, of being laughed at.

Father always warned me to mind myself, to avoid shaming them. So thats how Ive lived. Guide me, light my path. Amen.”

Sunday. An early spring morning. Across the street, only a few windows glowed with light. For the first time, shed prayed earnestlyand as she stepped back from the small crucifix, she felt two trails of tears on her cheeks.

Wiping them with the back of her hand, she grabbed two heavy bagsgroceries, paint for the fence, and other bitsand headed out.

Her joy was the cottage. There, she wasnt alone: she could work, chat with the neighbours over the fence about the seasons prospects.

The bags weighed her arms down, but at least she lived close to the bus stop. No one else waited at the stop. An hour passed. One packed country bus rolled by, then another. If a third ignored her, shed turn backfates way of saying today wasnt the day.

Thena miracle. A crowded bus screeched to a halt, ejecting a drunken man mid-argument, and beckoned her aboard.

Gasping, she squeezed inside. The doors barely shut behind her, the lack of air and mingling smells nearly making her faint.

Forty-five minutes later, she staggered onto her beloved cottage path. By three, her back felt smoked ham, her front a wilted daisy. Hunched over, arms dangling, she shuffled inside, marvelling shed made it.

Winking at her reflection, she showered and decided to nap for an hour.

She was asleep before her head hit the pillow. Woke near midnight to the telly droning. She turned it off, set the alarm, and curled up againbut sleep wouldnt come. After tossing, she rose, packed lunch for work.

Two days later, she retraced her steps to the cottage. Stepping inside, she froze: the kettle was warm. Her favourite mug waitedsugar and teabag ready.

Disbelieving, she touched the cup, shook her head, and went outside. Her freshly painted fence gleamed. Painted?

Who?

Mum, perhaps? She dabbed a green smearstill wet. Not Mum.

From the raspberry bushes next door, old Mrs. Wilkins scarf flashed. Evelyn called out.

“Mrs. Wilkins!”

A muffled reply came from the cottage depths. “Evelyn? Hold on!” Grumbling, the old woman emerged, wiping her hands on her apron. “Why so early? Day off yesterday? Fence looks smart.”

“No, worked yesterday. Did you see who painted it?”

“Not you? Didnt notice anyone. Youre pale as milk! Maybe your mum?”

Evelyn rang Mum.

“Youre up so earlywhats wrong?”

“At the cottage. Were you here?”

“No. Why?”

“Someone painted the fence.”

“Well, bless whoever helped! Say thank you. Got to dashmarket with your dad.”

Mrs. Wilkins tapped her foot. “Well?”

“Not her. Maybe old Mr. Thompson? When I lugged paint here, he joked about helping. Thought nothing of it. Ill go thank him.”

“Do. Come for lunch aftermade stew.”

No neighbour had seen or heard anything. Soon, they teased her about browniesthe helpful kind.

Two uneventful days passed. Leaving, she set out half a loaf, tinned stew, and a note: “Thank you.”

Next weekend, she flew to the cottage, heart racing. The miracle hadnt stopped: shelves nailed, floors scrubbed, order restored. Still, no witnesses.

It became a game. She visited at odd hours. The neighbours kept watch. She took leave to stalk her silent helper.

Nothing. Yet the garden thrivedwatered, weeded. Jams lined the shelves. Wildflowers graced the table. Even her old boots were mended.

Food vanished, but soups and salads appeared in the fridge, made from her own veg. What else could she do?

Like a fool, she stood in the cottage and thanked the air.

By summer, she grew bold, leaving instructions for next time. Told himwhoever he wasshed take him home for winter. No sense staying alone.

Neighbours envied her: “Lucky youa ghost with manners!”

She even consulted a fortune-teller, left milk outwhich Mrs. Wilkins cat lapped up.

Autumn came. Harvest done, earth prepared. On her last visit, she borrowed Mr. Thompsons old boot, sat on the step, and declared:

“Right then, master of the housetime to move. Youll live with me. Flats small, but well manage.”

A cheerful voice chimed left: “Sorry to startle you.”

She jumped. A man stood therethreadbare but clean, barefoot, wild hair, cornflower eyes, fists clenching nervously.

“Didnt mean to frighten you. You said youd take me.”

Tears spilled. She stared, speechless.

Then”Wait! Where dyou think youre going?” Softening: “Hungry?”

“A bit. You didnt leave todayI missed my chance.”

“Hold on. Ive dumplings at home. How to get you there? Stay put!”

She sprinted to the Thompsons, disbelief swirling. This couldnt be real.

Years later, hand in hand, Evelyn and her husband, William, strolled the parks golden paths. They laughed, recalling their impossible meetinghow theyd talked for hours, sharing their pasts.

Hers, you know. His? Simple enough. Born, studiedtwo degrees. Married ten years. Lost his job in the recession. His wife, a rising entrepreneur, threw him out.

He sofa-surfed until pride sent him packing. Drifted between allotments, stealing to eat.

Then he saw herstruggling with bags. Took pity. Helped in secret, hiding in her loft. Half hoped shed find him.

Now, absurd as it seemed, theyd tell their son this tale when he married.

Lifes strangest turns often lead where were meant to be.