The moment I took a step away, a needle-sharp headache stabbed between my brows. Clutching my head and hunching over, I felt someone come up behind me. Before I could react, a large hand steadied me, and I lurched forward, vomiting onto the floor. My body shook in spasms as I retched several more times, then collapsed, blacking out.When I came to, I was lying on a sheet damp with my sweat and smelling faintly of air freshener. I didn’t know where I was, nor did I have the strength to find out. It felt like I’d been trapped in a nightmare, but the details were gone. My headache and chills left every muscle aching. Outside the window, the sky was leaden and rain pounded the glass. Staying awake felt unbearable, yet despite my foggy mind, I couldn’t slip into oblivion. I longed for the bedroom I knew so well—the plush pillow, the blackout curtains, and most of all, the solid man who’d held me when I slept. I missed the warmth of his skin and the sweet scent of his sweat. Desperately, I pulled the sheet around me and tried to will myself to sleep. Soon I drifted off again.Between bouts of fever, I sensed movement and faint voices.“It seems… we should call… feels wrong…”“Let’s wait a bit… evening…”I fought to stay conscious, then sank back into darkness. When a hand pressed to my forehead jolted me awake, the room was pitch-black. A low lamp cast a dim glow. I stared at the steaming radiator by the window, then turned my head. The woman in the apron from the bus stop knelt beside me. She smiled faintly when our eyes met.“You’re finally awake. I was debating whether to call an ambulance.”“…How did I…”“You passed out. Thirsty?”She shuffled out in slippers and returned with a cup of water. I propped myself up enough to drink it slowly. When I finished, the big man stood silently in the doorway watching us. I lowered my head.“Feeling any clearer?” the woman asked gently. I muttered, “Yes. Thank you,” without lifting my eyes. I felt utterly broken. My headache throbbed.“Nauseous at all?”“No.”“Good. I stayed to make sure you didn’t throw up again.”“Oh… sorry. Thanks.”A hush fell. The man at the door said nothing, just watched. His silence felt like a signal that I should vanish. I shifted my hips and slid from the bed, moaning as another pain wave hit. No one spoke.Once the worst passed, I slipped into the shoes lined up neatly beside the bed. Someone had put them there. Shame, pain, frustration, and humiliation heated my face. As I rose, the silent man at the doorway spoke for the first time.“All right, you can move. Come down and have some tea.”Before I could answer, they left the room. I followed them into an ordinary home: plush carpet, framed pictures, a worn sofa, a television. I crossed the living room awkwardly and descended a narrow staircase to the dining area below—apparently where I’d been brought after vomiting. The spotless floor left me blushing with mortification.In the open kitchen the man brewed tea while the woman waited at a table. I sat opposite her, and she hummed as she gazed out the window. When I looked, the sky was dark—hours must have passed. Rain lashed outside.“Milk? Whiskey?” the man offered, lifting the kettle. My head throbbed worse at the thought of alcohol, so I chose milk. The woman took the whiskey. Quiet fell, broken only by the clink of tea service. Soon the man set a tray before me.Sipping the warm milk eased the headache slightly. I nursed the cup in silence, then spoke.“Thank you… for helping me.”They watched me wordlessly.“I needed help…”Christine’s icy voice flashed in my mind. I shook it off and drank more. The rain blurred the world beyond the glass. Where would I go now? I had no idea, but as in the past eight years, I would move on—somewhere. I drained the cup in one gulp and stood. My temples throbbed.“I should get going. Thank you… really.”“Want us to call a taxi? The buses have stopped.”“Oh—then a taxi…”“Do you have anywhere to go?” the man asked. My throat closed. I could have named a friend or family, but the words wouldn’t come. In my hesitation, he added,“I looked in your bag while you were out. Passport, cash… are you on the run?”“No.”“If you’re not on the run, then you’re just a homeless addict?”“….”Without waiting for me to respond, he sat again. The woman leaned forward, gentle.“Allan goes to addiction support meetings. You exhibit similar symptoms.”“Even if I am… why should that matter to you?” I replied, still rubbing my forehead. Allan tapped a finger on his teacup.“You said you needed help.”“….”“It’s better to help than to toss someone out in the rain.”“Why would you trust and help a stranger addict you met tonight?”“I didn’t say I trust you; I said I’d help.”I glanced between them. Allan’s face was impassive; the woman simply observed. Normally, I’d have mumbled some excuse and left. Any place would do—even a shabby hotel. But I neither rose nor asked for my bag. I stared at the empty cup.I was weaker than ever. Eight years of failures had piled up so high that I felt I’d drown in a shallow puddle. I had nowhere to go—no duty, no desire. I felt as empty as that teacup.The woman refilled my cup without a word. I drank again, and Allan rose, gesturing wordlessly. I followed him to a small storeroom off the kitchen. Stacks of supplies filled one side; on the other were a cot, a worn sofa, and a haphazard table strewn with empty wine bottles and dirty dishes—like a small party had just ended.Under the cot lay my battered duffel bag.“See you tomorrow,” Allan said, gathering the dishes and leaving. I stood in the cramped room, then collapsed onto the cot and closed my eyes.I spent about a week drifting in that diner.The next day, the clatter of pots roused me at lunchtime. The woman—whom I learned was Pei (페이, Pei)—immediately set me to work. She asked me to tackle the mountain of dishes at the sink. The lunch crowd filled every table. In a daze, I slapped on rubber gloves and began.By the time I’d scrubbed the last plate, the customers had left. Pei and Allan sat at a table laden with food and waved me over. I was starving and ate it ravenously. (That’s when I learned her name.) After clearing the dishes, we unpacked a delivery of produce to the storeroom, then I helped peel potatoes until night fell. Without a word, Pei and Allan bid me good night and went upstairs.The following day started even earlier, before I could speak. The rain had stopped; a crisp, clear sky hung overhead. Pei pressed me into folding tablecloths and napkins, then back to the dishes, then lunch, then prep, then dishes, then dinner. At each transition, “Good night,” and off they went.That night, I lay on the cot—a bed I’d grown attached to in two days—and pondered what “help” really meant. A private room and work in exchange for care. It seemed I could stay indefinitely. I wanted to resist, reminding myself of my mission and duty, but the thin mattress was so comfortable I drifted to sleep.Illness gripped me for days. Fever shivered me through, bedridden and useless. Yet Pei and Allan tended me devotedly. Allan made chicken soup and changed my sweat-soaked sheets; Pei brought tea and monitored my temperature. My fever raged until even the touch of a sheet hurt; I moaned involuntarily. I swore I’d never touch drugs again—it was excruciating. Pei offered,“I can take you to a hospital if you like…”But I shook my head. She doused my face and neck with a damp towel without persuasion.After a few days, my face was gaunt and I wore Allan’s pajamas, but my fever broke completely. Thankfully, my addiction hadn’t been long-term, so the withdrawal passed faster than expected. My body felt exhausted yet strangely light.I stayed that week, repaying them as best I could by working. With years of odd-job experience, I was handy. I cleaned grease from the counters, scrubbed the floor tiles, organized the storeroom, fixed the leaky bathroom pipe, and even repaired the backyard sprinkler. When Pei saw me fix the sprinkler, she blushed and, with Allan behind her, confessed her feelings—and I pretended not to notice and gathered my tools.One regular holiday, as we ate the lunch I’d prepared, Pei pushed her half-empty plate aside.“I expected you could cook, but this…”I mumbled an excuse.“I’m not picky if I’m fed,” I said.“We’re not animals, Raymond,” Pei scolded. “Cooking well is tied to quality of life. A bit of salt can make or break happiness.”“A bit of salt…” I shrugged.“But even if you cook well, you’d be overqualified to be kitchen help.”She tilted her head.“How about working here as a waiter? You’d still do odds and ends, but…”Pure joy welled in me. Her kindness, her outstretched hand—it felt like a miracle after feeling cornered by Christine. Despite countless rejections over eight years, unexpected help had found me at just the right moment. I thought of the gravedigger in Chadstone. Life wasn’t always heartless.Yet I hesitated, staring at the table. I didn’t deserve such generosity. Teddy’s face flashed through my mind. Silence stretched until Pei sighed dramatically,“Suspicious, I get it. Who offers this kind of help these days?”“No—it’s not suspicion…”“I understand. Take your time. Tonight’s fine, right?”She hummed, left the table, and climbed the stairs. I watched her go, then turned to Allan, who bit into a leftover grape and said,“I’m eating fine.”His taciturn presence kept the rest of the meal ⊛ Nоvеlιght ⊛ (Read the full story) quiet. We cleaned up without a word. After tea, Allan went upstairs. Alone, I pondered Pei’s offer, then sighed and stood. I wiped the table, then, with nothing else to do, considered sweeping the leaf-strewn yard. A glance behind made me jump—Allan stood there silently.He wore a jacket and held a knit cap. With a nod, he said,“If you’re free, come out with me.”It was the first time we’d gone out together since I arrived. I shrugged into my worn jacket and followed him.We drove without speaking. I asked if I could smoke; otherwise, still silence. The window down let in the cold autumn air and dark clouds promised rain. Soon we reached a small but busy shopping district of mall, donut shop, café, and bookstore. The car stopped in front of a red-brick building.

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