It was a shelter, not my home. After she died, I stayed out of necessity, not belonging. But I couldn’t bear the thought of spending all day inside on my own, so every morning, I headed out for a walk.

My route was always the same: across the recreation ground, then along the main road to the little arcade. I drifted past the shops and cafés, letting my movement fill the silence. Once upon a time, I’d have stepped into the bank to deposit cheques or draw out some cash. However, the banks had gone, cheques were relics, and if I needed money, I got it with the weekly shop. It was strange peering through the old bank’s windows – no cashiers behind glass screens, no queue of people clutching papers. My old bank became a coffee shop called Ellie’s.

On these perambulations, I watched people and wondered about their lives. Middle‑aged women chatted over cappuccinos. Youngsters puffing on their vapes. Elderly couples sat in companionable silence, decades of shared history between them. I studied them all.

But there was one woman who always caught my attention. Late fifties, perhaps. Grey hair knotted in long plaits and clothes that had lived a life. She sat at the window in Ellie’s with a laptop open, a cup of coffee cooling beside her.

I found myself inventing stories about her every time I passed. Something about her made me wonder who she was, what she was writing, and what emotional baggage she was carrying. Perhaps she was crafting stories – like my hobby. After lunch, if there was no housework or gardening to do, I sat at my desk and tapped away, lost in a world of creating fiction.

That day, watching her from the pavements, something shifted. The decision arrived almost before I was aware of making it: I was going inside to buy a coffee. And I was going to see whether I could coax a few words past my shyness.

An americano in one hand and a slab of flapjack on a plate in the other, I took the window table beside hers. My heart was thudding far louder than the situation warranted. I leaned on my elbows, trying to look casual, and lifted the mug to my lips. I angled my gaze toward her laptop, as if the glowing screen might offer a clue – something to anchor a conversation. I squinted, wiped my specs with a napkin, and squinted again. The text remained a blur, too small, too smudged, too private.

I took a bite of flapjack, swallowed another mouthful of coffee, and felt the old instinct to retreat, to let the moment pass unclaimed. But something steadied inside me – maybe loneliness, maybe curiosity, maybe the simple desire to be sociable.

I turned towards her, hoping my voice wouldn’t betray the tremor beneath it, aiming for something light and friendly.

“Writing a story?” I said, trying to sound as though it was the most natural question in the world.

Her head turned slowly. When she spoke, her few words landed with a heavy accent, the final consonants clipped and hard. “Yes, I am. But you will not understand. It is in the Russian language.”

Something inside me recoiled before I could stop it. She caught the reaction instantly. Her hand reached across to my table and closed gently around my wrist.

“No, don’t fear me,” she said softly. “I am a refugee. I can't return to Russia now.”

Heat flooded my face. “Sorry… really, I didn’t mean…”

She gave a forgiving smile. “It happens all the time. I’m used to it. I’m lucky to be alive and safe in England. That matters more than a small misunderstanding.”

Her grip loosened, and I tried to recover some dignity, forcing my voice back to normal. “I only asked if you were writing a story because… well, I do that too.”

“What kind of stories?”

“Mostly romance. Adult romance. The sort of thing we call Mills & Boon, but, err… a bit spicier.”

I could feel myself colouring again, unwilling to elaborate.

She let out a sudden, delighted giggle. “You mean erotic stories?”

Then, she lifted her hand to her lips and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “…with lots of sex?”

All I could do was nod as she dissolved into a fit of suppressed laughter.

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” she managed between breaths.

Her hand found mine again, this time brushing lightly across the back of it. The touch sent a shiver through me.

“My name is Larissa,” she said. “I think we can be good friends.”

A weight lifted from my chest.

“Larissa, that’s a lovely name. I’m Edward, but everyone calls me Ted.”

Her smile softened. “I like Edward more.”

She tilted her head. “Now – tell me about your stories.”

“The one I’m working on now is about first love,” I began. “Two eighteen‑year‑olds from different worlds. He’s middle class; she’s working class and living close to poverty.”

I paused, letting the thought settle. “What about yours?”

Larissa studied me for a moment, as if deciding how much of herself she was willing to reveal. When she finally spoke, her voice was low.

“It’s a love story and a tragedy. It is my life. Writing it helps keep me sane.”

There was something raw in her eyes, a depth of pain that made me hold my breath. Silence felt like the only respectful response, so I gave her space.

“When I was young,” she began, “my first job was as a typist at the Admiralty in Leningrad. A handsome naval officer noticed me, and we courted. Dimitry was on what you would call a fast-track programme. I still remember our evenings in the Winter Gardens, hiding in the dark corners behind the hedges. He proposed, and we married.”

She spoke with a soft, distant warmth, touching a cherished memory.

“Dimitry was from Ukraine. In those days, I thought of it the way you think of Wales or Scotland – different, but still home. When he finished training, he was posted to a ship in Odessa, so I moved with him to the officers’ quarters. Later, after promotions, we moved to Mariupol.”

Her voice steadied, but her hands tightened slightly.

“Life was good. I didn’t need to learn Ukrainian because everyone spoke Russian at the bases and around town. When he retired from the Navy, he found a good management job at the commercial port.”

She paused again. I let the silence stretch, giving her room to continue on her terms.

“When the war started, it was a terrible shock. Within days, we were under bombardment. Dimitry told me to pack so I could leave, but I refused to go without him. Soon, it became too dangerous to run. But there was a cargo ship in port, loading steel. Dimitry spoke to the captain, who agreed to take me to their next destination in England. It was the last ship to leave before the city fell.”

Her words hit me like cold water. She had lived through something unimaginable. I swallowed hard and asked the question I dreaded.

“What about Dimitry?”

Larissa’s face seemed to fold in on itself. Tears gathered in her eyes.

“I knew nothing during the voyage. My phone didn’t work – the SIM was only for Ukraine. When we reached England, a family took me in and paid for roaming. Then I saw his messages.”

She drew a trembling breath.

“The last one said he was organising a shelter for women and children at the theatre.”

The theatre. The huge signs that were painted on the ground. The airstrike. A single, brutal image of unimaginable fire and death flooded my mind. 

My eyes prickled, tears gathering before I could stop them, and I swung around, pulling my chair closer to her. I leaned in until the side of my head rested against hers. We stayed like that in silence – her face tucked into the curve of my neck, my blurred gaze fixed on the plain wall as the weight of her memories settled on us.

Time had no dimension for me; the moment felt fragile, and I knew it couldn’t hold forever. I leaned close to her ear and whispered, “Come with me, Larissa.”

Straightening, I reached for her hands – cupping them, folding my fingers around her small fists, and brushing her knuckles with my fingertips. She nodded once, slipped free, closed her laptop with a soft click, and lowered it into the bag at her feet.

We rose together. At the door, I held it open for her, letting her pass, and when I stepped out onto the pavement, I found her hand again and didn’t let go. We walked back to my place like that, fingers laced, saying almost nothing. The quiet between us felt necessary; the warmth of her hand was enough, and I needed the turmoil inside me to settle.

Indoors, I guided her into the lounge. We sat on the sofa with a small space between us, half-turned toward each other, our knees nearly touching, our hands still linked.

"Larissa", I began, “where are you now – today?”

The question sounded clumsy the moment it left my mouth, and I wasn’t sure she understood what I meant. But then, her words spilt out in a rush.

“Everything I value is lost. I’m alive, but not living. A refugee charity found me somewhere to stay and gives me a little money each week for food.”

She paused, sniffed, and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her jumper.

“I go to the café because I don’t have internet, so I use their Wi‑Fi. The staff know I’m poor and give me free coffee. I never thought life could be so hard. But I’m lucky compared with people at home. They live in fear of rockets and bombs with no heating, and it’s minus twenty.”

As she spoke, tentative thoughts gathered in me, and the same hesitancy that had held me back when I first approached her returned. I stumbled over the words as I tried to give them shape.

“Larissa… I have a spare bedroom. You could live here with me. I can support you. I can provide for you.”

Her reply came as a whisper. “Yes, Edward. Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you.”

It was everything I could have hoped for. Suddenly, I had someone to share my life with again – a reason to look forward, a sense of direction, and the stability I desperately needed. I lifted her hands, pressed them to my lips, and kissed her fingers.

._.

We spent a morning gathering her things from the flat. There was no furniture to speak of; that all belonged to the charity. She gave them notice, and I drove her to the agent’s office so she could hand back the keys.

By noon, we were back at my place, her single suitcase – everything she owned in the world – lying open on the spare bed. In the afternoon, we went shopping for the basics she’d never been able to afford. Balanced proudly on top of the supermarket trolley were a Beef Wellington, a bottle of New Zealand Riesling, and a large fruit trifle. I had a new friend, and I wanted to spoil her.

Life rolled on in the gentlest way. I was content. She was companionable, and somehow she made my bungalow feel like a home again. On wet days, we sat tapping on our laptops, writing our stories. On fine days, I drove into the countryside, and we walked paths and bridleways.

Every bedtime, I kissed Larissa’s cheek and watched her disappear into her room. I waited for the soft click of her door latch before turning towards my own. In the mornings, we’d meet in the kitchen for breakfast in our dressing gowns – hers was one of my little gifts.

Change arrived without warning, a fortnight after she moved in. I was in bed, propped on pillows, playing a card game on my phone, when a soft knock came at the door.

Unsure, a little querulous, I called, “Larissa… you can come in.”

The door opened slowly. She shuffled inside and then froze, like a startled animal caught in a sudden light.

“Please, Edward, I need a cuddle. I’m frightened.”

She looked so vulnerable, standing there in her nightie, her braided hair hanging down her front. I patted the space beside me and lifted the duvet in invitation. Everything felt dreamlike, slowed to half‑speed. She seemed almost to glide to the bedside before lowering herself carefully onto the mattress.

As she settled, I raised my arm so her head could rest in the crook of my shoulder. She rolled onto her side and draped an arm across my chest. With my free hand, I switched off my phone and let it fall onto the bedside cabinet.

I stroked her hair and kissed the crown of her head, feeling the warmth of her body pressed close to mine.

Her next words shook me. They were utterly unexpected, and they marked the beginning of a new chapter in our friendship.

“Edward… I want to stay all night. Please. I need you close.”

So I lowered my pillows, leaned across her, and turned out the lamp. Lying there on my back, with Larissa’s head on my shoulder and her arm across my body, felt surreal and wonderful in a way I could never have anticipated.

._.

To begin with, she came occasionally, perhaps dreading the nightmares of Mariupol. Other nights she slept alone. But as days turned into weeks, her visits grew more frequent. I treated her like fine porcelain, always afraid that one careless movement might cause her to shatter.

In the daylight hours, we lived like siblings, sharing the house and the small routines of life. Larissa began to do some housework, and one afternoon, when I returned home, I found her in the kitchen, stirring a steaming casserole.

She smiled, dipped the wooden spoon, raised it to her lips, and said softly, "It's my treat for us this evening. I went to the little supermarket and bought a few things. We can enjoy a Ukrainian meal. This is my own solyanka recipe."

It was delicious – a thick, fragrant soup with chicken, chorizo, carrots and parsnips. But more precious than the meal was the sense that she had turned a corner, that something inside her was beginning to thaw.

The true turning point arrived later that night. I was in bed, propped on pillows, reading the news on my phone, when she knocked and stepped inside. She stood on the carpet for a moment, her expression calm but determined, as though she had rehearsed this moment in her mind.

Then she lifted her nightdress over her head and let it fall to the floor.

When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. “I am yours, Edward. Please… I want to be close.”

The words struck me with their vulnerability. I set my phone aside and opened my arms out of a deep, protective tenderness. She came quietly, with a trust that felt both humbling and profound. What followed was a moment of closeness – two people choosing passion, comfort, and my fragile hope of healing in each other's company.