Kostik Sat in His Wheelchair, Gazing Through the Dusty Windows at the Street Outside

Connor Cavendish sat in his wheelchair, staring through a dustcovered pane at the street outside. Bad luck, really: the window of his ward faced the hospitals inner courtyard, a oncecozy little garden with benches and flower boxes, now almost deserted. It was winter, and patients rarely ventured out for a stroll. Connor was alone in the bay. A week earlier his neighbour, Simon Timms, had been discharged, and ever since the ward felt as empty as a teacup after a rainstorm. Simon was the sort of bloke who could spin a yarn faster than a London cabbie on a night shiftcheerful, talkative, and armed with a million anecdotes hed deliver with the flair of a seasoned actor. In fact, he was studying drama at university, third year, and his presence made any room feel like a backstage rehearsal. Every day his mother would drop by with fresh scones, fruit, and sweets, which Simon shared generously with Connor. With Simon gone, the homely buzz of the ward vanished, leaving Connor feeling more lonely than a hedgehog in a snowstorm.

His melancholy was interrupted by a nurses entry. To his dismay, the injectionadministering figure was not the brighteyed Daisy hed hoped for, but the perpetually sour Mrs Lydia Arkell, who seemed to carry a permanent scowl. In the two months Connor had spent in the hospital, he had never seen her smile, and her voice matched her expression: sharp, gruff, and a touch unpleasant.

Right, Cavendish, off to the bed! she barked, brandishing a syringe already filled with medicine.

Connor sighed, rolled his chair back, and shuffled to the bed. Lydia deftly helped him lie down, then flipped him onto his stomach with the same efficiency she used to stack plates.

Strip off your trousers, she ordered. Connor obeyed, feeling nothing at all. Lydias injection technique was flawless, and each time he thanked her silently in his head.

Wonder how old she is, Connor mused, watching her locate a barely visible vein in his gaunt arm. Probably retired by now, pension so small she has to work, thats why shes sopeevish.

She finally slipped the fine needle into his pale blue vein, causing only a brief wince.

All done, Cavendish. Did the doctor swing by today? she asked, already reaching for the door.

No, not yet. Maybe later he mumbled.

Dont just sit there staring out the windowdont catch a cold, youll be as dead as a dodo, she warned, and left the room.

Connor wanted to protest, but the nurses harshness held a strange undercurrent of concern. He was an orphan, after all. His parents had perished in a devastating fire when he was four, the blaze consuming their Yorkshire cottage and claiming everyone but him. His mother, in a last heroic act, had hurled him out of a shattered window into the snow just before the roof collapsed, sparing his life but sending him straight to the local childrens home. Relatives existed on paper, but none stepped forward.

From his mother he inherited a gentle, dreamy nature and bright green eyes; from his father, tall stature, a swaggering gait, and a knack for mathematics. Memories of his past flickered like old film reels: a village fête with his mum waving a bright flag, a breezy summer day perched on his dads shoulders, and a large ginger catnamed something like Whiskers or Marmaladeprowling the garden. All photographs perished in the fire, leaving him with almost nothing but the scar on his shoulder and a badly healed wrist.

When he turned eighteen, the state allocated him a spacious, sunfilled room in a council hostel on the fourth floor. Living alone suited him, though at times the loneliness hit like a bad joke. He got used to solitude and even found its perks, but the sight of families on playgrounds or in supermarkets triggered a bitter nostalgia.

He had hoped to go to university, but his exam scores fell short, so he enrolled in a technical college. The course suited him, but his classmates found him dullquiet, withdrawn, preferring books and journals to noisy student antics and video games. Conversations, when they happened, revolved solely around coursework. The same held true for the few girls he met; his modesty and reticence didnt rank high on the list of desirable traits, and at eighteen and a half he still looked no older than sixteen. He quickly earned the nickname white crow in his cohort, which didnt faze him in the slightest.

Two months ago, hurrying to a lecture on an icy pavement, Connor slipped in a subway tunnel and smashed both legs. The fractures were nasty, healing slowly and painfully, but by the past fortnight hed begun to improve. He hoped for discharge, yet his flat had no lift or wheelchair ramps, meaning his wheelchair would likely stay with him for a while yet.

After lunch, Dr. Roman Abramson, the orthopaedic specialist, entered. He examined Connors legs and the Xrays, then said,

Good news, Mr. Cavendish. Your bones are finally knitting together. In a couple of weeks youll be on crutches. You wont need to stay here much longer; youll be treated as an outpatient at the clinic. Your discharge papers should arrive within the hour. Is anyone coming to fetch you?

Connor nodded silently.

Excellent. Ill ask Lydia to help you pack. Take care, and try not to end up here again.

Ill try, Connor replied.

The doctor winked and left. As Connor mulled over his options, Lydia reentered.

Whatre you doing sitting there, Cavendish? Time to get outyour discharge is imminent, she said, handing him a small backpack that had been stashed under the bed. Pack up, well change the sheets soon.

He packed his modest belongings, and Lydias keen eyes lingered on him.

You didnt tell the doctor the truth, did you? she asked, cocking her head.

What? What are you on about? Connor replied, puzzled.

Youre not fooling anyone, Cavendish. I know no ones coming for you. How will you get home?

Ill manage, he muttered.

Youll be on crutches for at least another fortnight. How do you plan to live then?

Ill figure it out. Im not a child.

Lydia settled onto the edge of the bed, looking directly into his face.

Listen, with injuries like yours youll need help. You cant do it all solo. Im not being cruel; Im being realistic.

Ill manage on my own.

You wont. Ive been in this line of work long enough to know when someones in over their head.

If youre offering a hand, whats the catch? he asked.

Maybe you could stay with me for a bit. I live out in the country, a cottage with just two steps to the front door. The rooms free, and once youre on your feet you can head back home. Im a widow, no childrenjust me and the garden.

Connor stared, stunned. Living with a stranger felt odd, yet the thought of facing a stairless home without assistance was even odder. He recalled Lydias constant reminders: Your favourite meatballs are on the menu at lunch, Close the window, the draughts getting in, Eat the curd, its good for your calcium. Shed been the only one in the ward who ever seemed to care.

Im in, he said finally, but Ive got no money. My stipend wont start until later.

Lydia crossed her arms, a frown creasing her brow. Do you think Im running a boarding house for cash? I feel sorry for you, thats all.

I didnt mean to Connor started, then cut himself short, apologising.

Dont worry about it, she snapped. Come with me to the staff room; you can sit there until my shift ends, then well go.

Lydia lived in a tidy little cottage with narrow, leaded windows and carved wooden frames. Inside were two snug rooms, one of which would become Connors. At first he was so shy he barely left his room, trying not to bother the owner. Lydia soon put him at ease.

Stop being shy. Want a cup of tea? Its not a tea party, love.

He soon grew to love the place: the snowdrifted view from the windows, the crackle of the woodburning stove, the smell of homecooked stewall reminding him of a lost childhood.

Days passed. The wheelchair was eventually exchanged for crutches. After a routine checkup at the clinic, Connor hobbled alongside Lydia, chatting about upcoming exams and missed credits.

Youll need to pass those assessments, she advised. Your college wont go anywhere. The doctor said you should ease off on leg strain for a while.

Their bond deepened, and Connor found himself dreading the thought of leaving the cosy cottage and its endlessly kind lady, who had become a second mother to the orphan boy. Yet he lacked the courage to admit that, even to himself.

One morning, while searching for his phone charger, he turned and froze: Lydia stood on his doorstep, tears streaming down her cheeks. Compelled by an unseen force, he stepped forward and embraced her tightly.

Will you stay, my dear? she whispered through sobs, I dont know what Id do without you.

And he stayed. Years later, Lydia took a place of honour at Connors wedding, sitting beside his new bride as a beloved motherfigure. A year after that, she held his newborn granddaughter in the delivery room, naming the little one after herselfLydia, just as her greatgrandmother had once been.