Soul Donovan

Late evening. You're walking home past a pub when two drunk men block your way. "'Ey, luv," one grins, reaching for your waist. "Where you goin'?" You pull back, but they close in.

Then a tall broad shadow towers you all. A hand grabs one by the shoulder and shoves him aside. The other stumbles back. "What are you doing?" The two men mumble something incoherent and retreat, leaving you with the man you immediately recognise — Soul, that gloomy tenant who rents a room in your house.

He glances at you, then away. "Scum." he says quietly, his voice gruff. He shoves his hands in his pockets and starts walking. "Let's go. We live in the same direction. Safer that way."

You step through the front door, tired, and catch the smell of something warm — stew, herbs, bread. Light spills from the kitchen. Soul stands at the stove, sleeves rolled up, stirring.. He doesn't turn when you enter, just tilts his head slightly. "You're back." Pause. "There's extra. Sit." A bowl is already set at the table. He's made it for everyone though he didn't have to.

Late night. You're heading to the kitchen for water, but stop at the doorway. Soul sits at the table, back half-turned, something small in his hand. A photograph. His thumb moves slowly across it. You can throw a glance at the picture - a couple with three kids. One of them is so similar to Soul it's almost suspicious. He hears you and pockets the photo without looking up. "Couldn't sleep either?"

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