Allan didn’t even glance at the ice-cream shop on the first floor—he headed straight up the stairs. On the second floor were several small offices; he opened the second door and led me inside. The room was cozy, desks and chairs arranged in rows, and on the front chalkboard was written “Support Group for Drug Addiction Recovery.”I frowned instinctively and looked back at Allan. He met my gaze silently, then removed his beanie.“There’s no need to glare like that. I have business here.”He was telling the truth. He greeted several people who seemed to know him, but he never introduced me. I stood awkwardly behind him for a moment, then decided to sit in the quietest corner. From there, I watched Allan. Occasionally someone glanced my way and quietly asked him a question, but nobody approached me.When the meeting began, Allan spoke first: “Today marks 587 days since I last used drugs.”A gentle round of applause greeted him. He nodded with his usual stolid expression.“With each passing day, I grow more certain—certain I can continue improving, certain I can live a better life, certain I can face sorrow and frustration without relying on drugs. That certainty fills me with pride. And now, at last, I am certain of another thing…”He paused, surveying the room until his steady gaze settled on my face. Then he continued in a low voice:“I am now certain I am ready to help someone else.”Only then did I grasp Allan’s intention: he wanted to explain why Pei had made her offer.After the meeting, we went down to the ice-cream shop on the first floor. We sat facing each other—him with chocolate fudge, me with vanilla—and spoke quietly. Allan told me he’d lost his only family—his sister—five years ago, drifted without support until he turned to heroin, and sank into addiction. A year later, he woke up and joined this support group, but relapses were frequent—months clean, then back to heroin, sometimes not even a week clean. He met Pei here; she’d joined to help her mother, also an addict, and became his sponsor.“I haven’t touched heroin in nearly two years. No cigarettes, no alcohol either.”He paused to savor a big bite of chocolate fudge. I poked at my vanilla, which I didn’t much care for. After a moment, he said,“I’m not much of a talker.”Not news to me—after two weeks, today was the most he’d ever spoken.“I usually leave the talking to Pei.”“….”“What I want you to know is… I now have the strength to help anyone. And right in front of me is someone who needs help.”“….”“That’s why I brought you from the bus stop.”He wasn’t eloquent, but he spoke exactly what he meant. I nodded and finished the half-melted vanilla.We did a quick shop and returned to “home.” While Allan cooked dinner, Pei brought me a fresh, fluffy blanket. Over the meal, I shared my story—how I’d come ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) from the U.S. to England looking for someone, how I’d drifted from place to place until I’d ended up turning to drugs.“So before this, where did you stay?” Pei asked.“With my boyfriend. In Portsmouth, by the docks.”“You broke up?”“You could say that.”After dinner, I handed over my passport, ID, and every last pound for safekeeping. Pei refused at first, but when I insisted it was to stop me sneaking out for drugs, Allan took them. Thus I became a waiter and odd-jobs helper at the restaurant Ellefan.They paid me a fair wage, which I saved in a tin. But more than the money, the steady, peaceful days stacked up in my mind—even as my head remained empty of plans or purpose. Each night, I struggled to sleep, haunted by names and faces I couldn’t forget. The weather was unseasonably warm; customers sat on the terrace in jackets slung over their arms, sipping coffee. To sleep, I ran—rain or shine—until exhaustion.One rainy evening, I felt headlights behind me and ran on, but the car stayed close. Finally I stopped and turned. The glare hid the driver’s face, but when the window rolled down, I recognized him.“I’ve watched you these past few days. Figured it was you—you’re hard to miss.”His youthful face, slim build, golden hair to his chest. I peered in and said,“You’re the guy who bled me dry in the club, right?”He watched me for a moment, then said with a sardonic grin,“Guilty. Bad guy stealing from a drunk.”“So what?”He tilted his chin, irritatingly.“That’s for me to say. If you’ve no business, move along.”“Believe me, I was just about to.”He snapped the window closed and revved away—but stopped almost at once. I wiped the rain from my eyes and walked on. The window rolled down again, and the car followed at a slow crawl.“I’m Harry—Harry Boyd.”He said it bluntly. I looked back. He tried to mask curiosity.“Here to see Christine?”“You still hung up on her? Get over it.”“Did you think I was chasing her out of love? I’ve moved on—mostly.”Christine had never dumped anyone—why did he keep making that mistake? He shrugged off my reply and we arrived at Ellefan. I stared at him as he leaned out the window and peered at the restaurant.“You live here now? Finished with Teddy?”“Something like that. Got what I needed—now go.”“He’s resourceful—Christine, then Teddy, now the restaurant guy?”“Stop the bullshit and goodbye.”I waved and went in the back door. Through the window I saw his car speed off without a backward glance.The next day, the unbroken rain left the restaurant empty. Pei dozed over a newspaper in the corner; Allan sipped tea and listened to low radio. I tidied the storeroom, secretly hoping for a special lunch—when no customers meant Allan might treat us.The bell rang, and a customer entered. Pei jumped up to serve, and I finished my task and emerged into the kitchen. Allan was already trimming vegetables. Unsure what to do, I wandered restlessly until he pointed firmly to a chair. I sat and watched him work. In no time he assembled tomato caprese and two salmon sandwiches. I grabbed the plates and headed to the dining room—only to nearly drop them.“There you are! Why pretend you weren’t here?”Harry called out, sitting with Christine, who waved. Dumbfounded, I began to protest—until Christine, her eyes narrowed, let out her trademark sniff.“Well, well. Fancy seeing you here—really working?”“….”“You said you’d never show your face again, but here you are, in front of my home’s restaurant. You’re something.”I snapped back without thinking,“My working here has nothing to do with you!”“Rubbing it in, are we? So I’m truly irrelevant to you?”Fuelled by anger, I stepped forward, almost spilling my plates. I set them down on their table with a thud, ready to retort—when Pei cleared her throat. I turned and saw her folded the newspaper, watching us with keen interest.“And who might you be?” Pei asked politely.“Oh… it’s nothing. Don’t mind me.”Suddenly parched, I grabbed the water glass and drank deeply. Of course, I didn’t really believe I’d never see Christine again—after all, we lived in the same neighborhood. But I hadn’t expected to bump into her so soon. I was at a loss for words, standing there like a fool.Christine was, as always, perfect from head to toe—rosy lips glinting, hair immaculate. Yet her cold expression and tensed, muscled arms looked threatening. She leaned toward Pei and nodded slightly.“I’m Christine.”“I’m Pei—nice to meet you.”“You’ve chosen your staff poorly. Fine look, but useless.”I jolted at Christine’s bluntness. Pei laughed it off, but Christine ignored me and began her meal. With Christine and Harry happily eating together, I had no choice but to step back.As I turned to leave, Pei waved urgently. I approached and bowed slightly—only for Pei to utter, “Is that her ex-boyfriend?” making me gasp in disbelief. I simply called him “a friend,” and Pei, though skeptical, accepted it.After their meal, Christine tossed off, “Persistent, aren’t you?” but said no more. All day I pondered her tone—it wasn’t as cruel as I’d feared. Perhaps she was softening? If only I could talk to her again. Yet unless she came back, there’d be no chance. I left the taste of hope on my tongue.But chance came unexpectedly. Although Christine never returned, her friend Harry began dropping by. He’d come in to pack sandwiches and stare at me curiously. If I caught his gaze, he’d challenge me: “What’re you looking at?” Like a defiant child. Yet he never had the nerve to speak beyond that, and this odd pattern lasted over a week—until I couldn’t stand it and spoke first.“What do you want to say?”He lifted his chin arrogantly.“You’re kind of pretty.”“What—so you hung around every day to check me out?”“I hate pretty boys—don’t get me wrong, sir. You’re not my type.”Before I could argue, he continued.“My type is… small. Not tall and lanky like you. How tall are you anyway? Don’t bother answering. I like petite. Nothing burdensome.”He trailed off. I didn’t know how to respond.

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