**A June Tale**
It all began with a pair of tiny rain boots that my friend Lily had left to dry on her windowsill—since she didn’t have a balcony—only for them to tumble down below.
“I told you this would happen one day,” muttered Lily’s mum, who often popped over to help with her granddaughter. “How on earth will you get them back now? I’ve said a hundred times, there’s no sense splashing about in puddles. No place to dry things, no spare shoes!”
“Mum, it was just a June shower! It’s pure joy to walk through puddles!”
“This year’s June has been dreadfully wet.”
Lily leaned out the window—the sun was shining now, and sure enough, the boots had landed on the balcony below. It was a new building, and they hadn’t lived there long. Neither Lily nor her mum had ever seen the neighbour downstairs. Rumour had it some old bachelor lived there.
Mother and daughter often grumbled about the flat’s design: “Why on earth does *he* need a balcony? He’s never out there! They should’ve given *us* one—we’ve nowhere to dry anything!”
“Go on, ring his doorbell now. What’s little Rosie supposed to wear to nursery tomorrow?”
Rosie, a curly-haired three-year-old entirely unfazed by her lack of footwear, was trying to toss her stuffed bunny out the window—until Grandma swiftly shut it and wagged a finger at her.
Meanwhile, Lily had already gone downstairs.
“He’s not in. As usual.”
Lily’s mum sighed. “Mrs. Wilkins from the first floor said he’s a bus driver. Good luck guessing his shifts!”
“I’ll try again later,” Lily mumbled.
She went down repeatedly that evening, but still no sign of their elusive neighbour. Fortunately, a kind friend of Lily’s dropped off her son’s outgrown trainers—good enough for a few nursery days.
Rosie was *not* pleased with her new shoes. But with no other choice, the next day—and the day after—Lily and her mum kept checking, never catching the neighbour home.
“Maybe he doesn’t even live there?”
“Oh, I saw his light on last night—around two,” chimed in Mrs. Wilkins, who’d stopped by to borrow salt and chat. “I was chasing that rascal of a cat of mine—would *not* come inside.”
“Two in the morning? We were fast asleep,” Lily said, bewildered.
“Why don’t you just leave a note? Slip it under his door: ‘Your balcony’s got our boots—please drop them by when you can, since we never seem to catch you.’”
“Why didn’t *we* think of that? Brilliant! No wonder you’re the building’s chairwoman!”
So they did. They wrote the note, with Rosie adding her own contribution at the bottom—a lopsided bunny face, captioned: “My bunny’s portrait!” Together, they solemnly delivered it downstairs.
That very evening, the doorbell rang.
“It’s *him*!” Lily and Rosie shouted in unison (Grandma had already left, and Mrs. Wilkins had said her goodbyes) as they rushed to answer.
On the doorstep stood a very tall, *far* from elderly, blue-eyed man in a bus driver’s uniform. He greeted them with a smile, holding out the boots and stuffed toy. “Found these on my balcony. Yours?” He glanced at Rosie, who nodded vigorously and babbled: “Did you see my bunny’s picture? Want to meet *real* bunny?” Caught off guard, he just nodded silently.
While Lily thanked him for returning the boots, Rosie was already dragging him by the hand to her room. Lily only caught snippets: “*I* don’t have a daddy, but Mummy makes *the best* hot chocolate!”
“Best hot chocolate, eh? I’m rather fond of it myself,” he replied, gamely humouring her. Lily perked up.
“Fancy joining us for some? I’ve got a secret recipe. Do you like cinnamon?”
“Ah—I shouldn’t intrude, but I’d never say no to cocoa. My gran used to make it just so—cinnamon and all.”
And so, one cup led to another, and before they knew it, Lily and George were still chatting in the kitchen past midnight. Rosie had long since gone to bed, whispering sleepily, “Come back, we like you,” while they talked on—about grandmas, about biscuits dipped in cocoa, about June rains, about how driving cross-country buses had been his boyhood dream.
Then a summer downpour began, sudden and loud, washing in the scent of blooming trees outside. George started. “Blimey—I’d best be off.”
Lily, echoing Rosie without thinking, blurted, “Do come round again!” Almost adding, like her daughter, *We like you.*
And he *did* come back. Again and again. Until, one day, he simply stayed.
A year later, as Rosie’s grandma pushed her baby brother’s pram past Mrs. Wilkins, she confided: “She *always* makes him cocoa before his shifts—and *I* taught her the recipe! And they *both* love walking in the rain now.”
Mrs. Wilkins sighed wistfully. “Ah, cocoa…”
