James hurried home. The day had been gruelling: his boss had berated everyone since morning, new tasks piled up by afternoon—all “needed yesterday”—and the traffic had drained the last of his energy. For over a decade, he’d worked in accounts for a large firm in Manchester, and with each passing year, dragging himself out of bed grew harder. Purpose dissolved somewhere between spreadsheets and unpaid overtime. At home waited his ageing two-bed flat, a rescued tabby named Whiskers, and a stack of books he kept saving “for the weekend.”
All he wanted was silence, a hot cuppa, and a few hours without words or obligations. But as he turned onto his street, something caught his eye.
At the bus stop sat an elderly woman in a threadbare coat, clutching a plain shopping bag. She wasn’t begging or drawing attention—just staring blankly ahead. But her eyes… they were wet. Silent tears streaked her cheeks, and she listlessly wiped them with her sleeve.
James meant to walk past. He was exhausted, his ears still ringing from the day’s chaos. Yet something tugged at his chest. He paused. Hesitated. Then stepped closer.
“You alright?” he asked quietly.
She startled, meeting his gaze with a look so weary it seemed broken. A faint smile flickered but didn’t hold.
“Oh, I’m fine… Just resting a moment.”
“You’ve been here twenty minutes,” James said gently. “Could use a hand?”
She pursed her lips, as if weighing whether to speak. Twisted the bag in her hands. Finally sighed:
“It’s silly, really… My house is empty. Lost my Reginald last year. My son’s in Australia. Today would’ve been Reg’s seventieth. Bought a cake, wanted to light a candle. Then I thought—what’s the point? Celebrate alone? So here I am. Pathetic, isn’t it?”
James stayed quiet. Sometimes words were just noise.
“I’ve a kettle on,” he murmured. “Proper peppermint tea. Fancy joining me?”
She eyed him warily.
“You’d invite a strange old woman into your home?”
“Why not? Might even be neighbours.”
She huffed, shoulders lifting slightly.
“You’re not some madman, are you?”
James grinned.
“Madmen don’t offer peppermint tea, do they?”
She stood, gripping her bag like she might change her mind.
“I’m Margaret,” she said softly.
“James,” he nodded. “Not strangers now.”
At his kitchen table, they sipped tea. Margaret spoke of autumns making apple jam with Reg, how he’d built shelves and stools, how he loved his old records. James listened, interjecting only with nods.
“You been on your own long?” she asked suddenly.
“Six years,” he replied. “Was married once. No rows—just grew apart. She moved on; I stayed.”
“Kids?”
“Never happened.”
Margaret nodded sadly.
“Loneliness… Some days you crave the quiet. Others, it near swallows you whole.”
“Well, I’ve Whiskers,” James chuckled. “She’s a fine listener for the telly news.”
They laughed. Then she checked her watch.
“Thank you, James. Truly. Best be off now.”
“Drop by anytime,” he said. “Never short on tea.”
After that evening, Margaret visited often—sometimes with a pie, once with knitted socks, mostly just to talk. They shared stories, sat in comfortable silences, and found solace in neither being alone.
James realized: sometimes, saving someone just means stopping to say, “You’re not on your own.”