**The Light in the Window**
Evening cloaked the small town of Willowbrook in a misty gloom. Geoffrey Whitmore trudged wearily toward the scruffy entrance of an old block of flats where his old mate Paul lived. The lift, as usual, was out of order, so Geoffrey huffed his way up to the fifth floor. Catching his breath, he pressed the doorbell and waited.
The door creaked open, and instead of Paul, his daughter Emily stood there, her face brightening with a warm smile.
“Evening, Uncle Geoff!” she said cheerfully. “Looking for Dad?”
“Aye,” Geoffrey nodded, wiping his brow.
“He’s not here,” Emily replied apologetically. “I packed him off to a health retreat. He’ll be back in a week.”
“A week?” Geoffrey frowned, a weariness seeping into his voice. “That’s bad… very bad.”
“What’s wrong?” Emily’s smile faltered as she studied his tired face.
“Nothing,” he brushed her off, though pain flickered in his eyes. “Right then, Emily, best be off.”
“Wait, Uncle Geoff!” She took a step forward. “If there’s something you need, tell me. Maybe I can help?”
“Nothing left for me now,” Geoffrey muttered, staring at the floor. “Though… you know my windows face yours?”
“Well… yes,” she nodded uncertainly, not quite following.
“Could you keep an eye on them?” His gaze lifted, something unsettling in his eyes.
“What do you mean?” Emily stiffened.
“Just what I said,” his voice hardened. “At night—could you look and see if my light’s on?”
“Uncle Geoff, what’s going on?” A chill ran down her spine.
“Nowt’s going on,” he sighed heavily. “Had a check-up. Docs said something’s not right. Wanted me in hospital for tests.”
“And?” Her eyes widened.
“Told ’em no,” he grunted. “Walked out.”
“What?!” she cried. “You can’t ignore that! You’re not even sixty-five yet!”
“Don’t want to,” he cut in, voice wavering. “I’m tired, lass. Wife’s gone, life’s lost its shine. Reckon it’s time… to join her, like. So I’m asking—just watch the window. If it stays dark a few nights, come ring my door. If I don’t answer, you know who to call. They’ll break in, and you’ll find my son’s number on the table. Ring him, tell him to sort things out.”
“Uncle Geoff, don’t talk like that!” Horror etched her face. “It’s wrong to think that way!”
“Wrong?” He scoffed. “I’m not planning anything. Just letting fate decide. Not clinging to life—never been my way. Don’t want to? Then don’t look. I’m off.”
“Wait!” She grabbed his sleeve desperately. “Why not call your son? Tell him you’re poorly—he’d come!”
“What for?” Geoffrey scowled. “He’s got his own life down in London. Don’t want to trouble him. Enough, Emily.”
He turned and lumbered down the stairs. She stood frozen, throat tight, watching him go.
Outside, a cold drizzle fell. Geoffrey tugged his coat collar up and shuffled along the pavement, eyes fixed on the wet tarmac. His steps dragged, as if each one cost him. Then, suddenly, he spotted a tiny pup curled in a pile of wet leaves. Soaked and shivering, it stared up at him with such longing his chest ached.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, stopping. “Last thing I need. Can’t take you. If anything happens to me, who’d look after you?”
The pup, as if understanding, waddled over and nuzzled his shoe. Geoffrey hesitated, then sighed and scooped it up.
“You’re a heavy little bugger,” he grumbled. “Alright, one night. Tomorrow I’ll hand you to Emily—she’ll sort you out.”
A week later, someone hammered on Geoffrey’s door. He opened it to find Paul back from his retreat, face red with fury.
“What the hell’s this, Geoff?!” he stormed in. “Emily told me everything! What’re you playing at?”
“Playing at what?” Geoffrey stepped aside. Behind him, a joyful yap sounded as a plump, clean pup bounded toward Paul.
“And what’s this?” Paul stared at the wriggling furry thing wagging its tail.
“Come through, I’ll show you,” Geoffrey smirked. The pup scampered circles around Paul, barking excitedly.
“See?” Geoffrey said proudly. “Found him after leaving yours. Meant to just shelter him from the rain, but next morning he’s staring at me like, ‘I’m your fresh start, old man. Take me.’ And you know what, Paul? He’s right. Three walks a day—life’s got purpose again. No more moping. Feels like being a lad.”
“Blimey,” Paul crouched to scratch the pup’s ears. “Taken him to the vet?”
“Course,” Geoffrey nodded. “Said this breed lives twenty years. So, premature to meet my maker just yet.” He glanced at the pup. “With her here, even breathing’s easier.”
Geoffrey met Paul’s gaze, warmth in his eyes for the first time in years. The pup nuzzled his hand, and the flat buzzed with quiet, living joy.
Funny how life nudges you—sometimes with a wet nose and four paws—just when you’ve given up on it.