Chris, are you out of your mind? Do you really think I’d invite you to live with me just for money? I feel sorry for you, that’s all.

“Connie, have you lost your mind? Do you think I’m inviting you to live with me for money? I just feel sorry for you, that’s all.”

Connie sat in his wheelchair, staring through the grimy hospital window at the courtyard below. He wasnt luckyhis room overlooked the quiet inner yard of the hospital, where a small, neat garden with a few shops and flowerbeds stood empty.

Winter had settled in, and patients rarely ventured outside. Connie was alone in his room. A week ago, his roommate, Jamie Taylor, had been discharged, and since then, the loneliness had crept in like a cold draft.

Jamie had been the cheerful sort, full of stories, and hed tell them like a proper actorbecause thats what he was, a third-year drama student. In short, boredom was impossible around him. Plus, his mum visited every day, bringing homemade cakes, fruit, and sweets, which Jamie always shared.

With Jamie gone, the room had lost its warmth, and now Connie felt more alone than ever.

His gloomy thoughts were interrupted when the nurse walked in. His heart sank furtherit wasnt the sweet young nurse, Daisy, but the perpetually stern and sour-faced Mrs. Eleanor Whitmore.

In his two months at the hospital, Connie had never once seen her smile. Her voice matched her expressionsharp, gruff, and unpleasant.

“What are you doing sitting there? Get back to bed!” Mrs. Whitmore barked, holding a syringe ready.

Connie sighed, obediently turned his wheelchair, and rolled to the bed. Mrs. Whitmore efficiently helped him lie down, then flipped him onto his stomach.

“Trousers off,” she ordered. Connie complied, bracing himselfbut he hardly felt a thing. Mrs. Whitmore was a pro with needles, and for that, he was silently grateful.

*How old is she?* he wondered, watching her as she expertly found a vein in his thin arm. *Must be retired by now. Probably stuck working because her pensions too smallthats why shes always so cross.*

The needle slipped in with barely a twinge.

“All done. Has the doctor been round yet?” she asked, gathering her things.

“No, not yet,” Connie shook his head. “Maybe later.”

“Then wait. And dont sit by the windowyoull catch a draft. Skinny as a rake as it is,” Mrs. Whitmore said, marching out.

Connie almost took offence, but there was something beneath her gruffnesssomething almost like care. Even if it was harsh, it was more than hed had in years.

Connie was an orphan. His parents had died when he was four. A fire had torn through their countryside cottage, and he was the only one who made it out alive.

The burn scars on his shoulder and wrist were the remindershis mother had thrown him from a shattered window into the snow just before the roof collapsed, burying the rest of his family.

Foster care followed. Relatives existed, but none had wanted him.

From his mother, hed inherited soft green eyes and a dreamy nature. From his father, his height, long stride, and a knack for maths.

He barely remembered themonly flashes, like scenes from a film: his mother laughing at a village fair, waving a bright little flag; his father lifting him onto his shoulders, the summer breeze warm on his cheeks.

Thered been a ginger cat, tooTommy or maybe Whiskers. But that was it. No photos, no keepsakes. Everything had burned.

At the hospital, no one visited. When he turned eighteen, the council gave him a small flat on the fourth floor of a block without a lift.

Hed liked living alone, but sometimes the loneliness hit so hard he could have cried. Eventually, he got used to iteven found some peace in it.

But his past still haunted him. Watching families in parks or shops, hed get that bitter, hollow feeling again.

After school, hed wanted to go to university, but his grades werent enough. So, hed settled for a technical college. He liked it well enough, but he never quite fit intoo quiet, too bookish for his classmates taste.

Girls werent interested either. At eighteen, he still looked about sixteen. He became the odd one out, though it never seemed to bother him.

Two months ago, racing to class on icy pavement, hed slipped in an underpass and broken both legs. The fractures were bad, healing slow and painful, but lately, things had improved.

The doctor had just told him hed be discharged soonbut now he had a new worry: his flat had no lift, no ramps, and hed be stuck in a wheelchair for weeks.

After lunch, Dr. Robert Harrison, the orthopaedic surgeon, came in.

“Right, Connie,” he said after checking the X-rays. “Good newsyour bones are finally healing properly. A few more weeks, and youll be on crutches. No point keeping you here. Youll carry on at the clinic. Someone picking you up?”

Connie nodded silently.

“Brilliant. Ill get Mrs. Whitmore to help you pack. Take care, and try not to end up here again.”

As the doctor left, panic set in. *What now?*

Mrs. Whitmore bustled in.

“What are you sitting around for? Youre being discharged,” she said, handing him his rucksack from under the bed. “Pack up. The cleaner needs to change the sheets.”

As he stuffed his things in, he noticed her watching him.

“Whyd you lie to the doctor?” she asked, head tilted.

“About what?” Connie feigned confusion.

“Dont play daft. I know no ones coming for you. How are you getting home?”

“Ill manage,” he mumbled.

“You wont. Youve got weeks before you can walk properly. What then?”

“Ill figure it out. Im not a child.”

Suddenly, she sat beside him, peering into his face.

“Connie, its none of my business, but youll need help. You cant do this alone.”

“Ill manage.”

“You wont. Ive been in this job long enough. Why are you being so stubborn?”

“Even if thats true, why do you care?”

She scowled. “Because you can stay with me. I live out in the countryside, but theres only two steps to the front door. And Ive got a spare room. Once youre back on your feet, you can go home. Its just memy husbands long gone, no kids.”

Connie stared. *Live with her?* They were strangers. And hed learned long ago not to rely on anyone.

“Well?” she snapped.

“Its just awkward,” he muttered.

“Awkward is trying to live alone in a wheelchair in a flat with no lift,” she retorted. “So? Coming or not?”

He hesitated. But the truth was, he had no choice. And beneath her rough edges, shed looked after him these past monthsbringing extra food, scolding him to eat his cheese for calcium, checking he wasnt cold.

Now, she was the only one offering help.

“Alright,” he said finally. “But I dont have money. My student grant wont come till next month.”

Mrs. Whitmore put her hands on her hips, staring at him like hed gone mad.

“Connie, have you lost your mind? You think Im charging you rent? I feel sorry for you, thats all!”

“I just thought”

“Stop being daft. Come on, wait in the nurses station. My shifts nearly done.”

Mrs. Whitmore lived in a small, tidy cottage with narrow windows. Inside were two snug roomsone of which became Connies.

At first, he was painfully shy, barely leaving the room, terrified of being a burden.

Noticing, she set him straight: “Stop being ridiculous. Ask for what you needyoure not a guest.”

Truth was, he liked it therethe snow outside, the crackle of the fireplace, the smell of home-cooked meals. It reminded him of the childhood hed lost.

Days passed. The wheelchair was abandoned, then the crutches. Soon, it was time to return to the city.

After a clinic check-up, Connie limped beside Mrs. Whitmore, talking about catching up on exams.

“Take a deferral,” she said. “Your college isnt going anywhere. The doctor said not to overdo it!”

Theyd grown close. And more and more, Connie found himself dreading leavingthis cosy cottage, this woman whod become like family.

But he couldnt bring himself to say it.

The next day, as he packed, he turned to find Mrs. Whitmore in the doorwaycrying. Without thinking, he hugged her.

“Stay, Connie,” she whispered. “What will I do without you?”

So he stayed. Years later, she sat proudly as his mother-of-the-g