Victor sat at the table, staring blankly past Olivia. She was chatting away, gesturing, smiling, but his mind was elsewhere.
“Vic, you’re not listening. Is something wrong?” Olivia frowned.
“No, everything’s fine,” he said, snapping back. “Go on.”
“I can tell you’re distracted,” she pressed.
“Can you make soup?” he asked abruptly.
“What? What kind of soup?” She blinked in surprise.
“Just regular soup. Chicken noodle, maybe…?”
“Well, yes. Why?”
“I need to ask you a favour,” Victor said seriously.
…
Outside the door of flat fifteen, a bin bag had been sitting for two days. Victor noticed it yesterday, nearly tripping over it. That morning, another small one had appeared beside it. There was no smell, but it looked odd. The building was new, barely a year old.
When he returned that evening, the bags were still there. He shook his head and decided to speak to the neighbours in the morning.
By the next day, there were three. Victor knocked firmly. Once, twice.
“Coming, coming…” came a woman’s voice.
An elderly woman in glasses and a knitted blue cardigan opened the door. She smiled but flinched, trying to close it slightly.
“Good morning. These bags are yours. Please take them out. The cleaner isn’t responsible for this.”
“I thought… my grandson was supposed to visit. I meant to… my hands don’t work properly,” she admitted, showing her trembling palms.
“I’ll take them. Don’t worry.” Victor grabbed the bags and left.
…
That evening, as he entered the building, the door to flat fifteen cracked open.
“Hello. Here…” The woman held out a note. “For the rubbish.”
“Don’t worry about it. Really.”
“Come in, then. It’s hard for me to stand…”
Victor stepped inside. The flat was sparse, barely furnished. Boxes lined the wall—instant noodles, powdered mash, long-life milk.
“It’s no trouble. Just don’t leave them outside. I can collect them at eight.”
“Thank you, Victor. I’m Irene. I have everything I need. My grandson visits once a month. It’s just my hands… I miss proper soup sometimes,” she said with a weak smile.
…
Later, Victor sat with Olivia in a café. She chattered about a dress she’d tried on. He stayed quiet.
“Honestly, where’s your head at today?” she huffed.
“Sorry. Just thinking.”
“About dessert? Should we get sticky toffee pudding? Or maybe the apple crumble?”
“Can you make soup?” he interrupted.
“Is this an invitation? Or do you want me in your kitchen, wearing your shirt? Fancy a Thai curry?”
“Just normal soup. Chicken broth, maybe…”
“Order takeaway and take it to your nan, then,” Olivia snapped. “That’s what carers are for.”
…
He left the café, disoriented. At the supermarket, he grabbed a drink, then overheard a girl picking chicken.
“For soup?” he asked.
“Yes. The best cut. Closest to homemade.”
“What else do you need for broth?”
They talked. Her name was Emily. She lived nearby. When he mentioned the old lady, she said,
“Come back in an hour and a half. I’ll make a pot.”
…
He brought the soup to Irene. Then he went back to Emily.
“She was so happy. Like it wasn’t about the soup at all.”
“It wasn’t,” Emily nodded. “The soup was just the excuse.”
Victor’s phone buzzed. Olivia. He declined the call.
“Go on, eat. It’ll get cold.”
Victor smiled.
“Turns out, soup really is the important thing.”
