⤞ 𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞

Pot simmering way on the stove, the smell of the delicious ingredients you picked from the market earlier filled the small apartment.

By now it was dark outside, and the deep and mute tones of the apartment's colour scheme did little to alleviate the feeling of the bitter winter.

Your afternoon had been spent unpacking your things at last in the colourless guest room, trying to push aside the eerie words of warning from the market seller earlier on that day.

As you had settled your possessions into the cold room, you swore your eyes caught glimpses of little flickers of former life in that room - particular staining on the wood floor where the sun had bleached the boards around certain furniture which was now a but gone. The writing desk compartment of the bureau held a very fine ink set, well used and once clearly loved - discarded as if someone had just fled in the night.

Maybe it was the sense that this space was somewhat personal a lifetime ago, but you felt almost like an intruder at present. However, with a match to the hearth and some candles lit - the space did begin to diffuse into something that felt akin to home.

You knew your feelings would change, it was only the first day.

Despite that, it was pleasing already to see the hardened exterior of Jacob chipping away, like old plaster off a wall.

Whilst dinner simmered in the large pot on the stove, you paced languidly around the apartment - with nothing to do but wait for the chicken and vegetable stew to finish cooking.

Mr Frye was sat at the table, reading again - a small pair of eye glasses teetering on the bridge of his nose. You did often wonder if he got bored reading, he seemed to spend a lot of his free time with his nose buried in a book.

Casting your eyes to the vast and plentifully filled bookcase, you gathered there must be enough material there to last a lifetime.

"Pardon me," you excused yourself, as the dark haired man glanced up from his book, peering at you over the top of the glasses.

"Have you always been a reader? You have quite the collection." You chirped up conversationally, gesturing your head at the bulky bookcase on the adjacent wall.

Clearing his throat, Jacob carefully wedged a weathered old bookmark into the pages and closed his reading material shut softly.

"Not always," he replied with a soft sigh, looking over at the books seemingly spilling out of the bookcase. His dark eyes lit up with fondness, as he recalled better days.

""In my youth, if you'd had told me 15 or so years from then I'd enjoy reading books - I'd have told you to piss off." He chuckled, glancing at you momentarily with a worried look as he gauged yourself reaction to the expletive. Perhaps he was worried you would be the uptight kind of person to be offended.

You smiled kindly to let him know it was ok, turning back to stir the stew before you paced back to the table, pulling up a chair next to Jacob.

"What were you like?" You asked, fumbling a bit over your phrasing. "When you were... younger?" You internally grimaced, hoping it wouldn't be a sore spot of conversation given that the man was frustrated and agitated all the time with his current physical condition.

Yet instead you were pleasantly surprised by the reaction, a warm look of contented recall on his expression. Jacob fished the glasses from his nose and set them down on the table top, leaning back in his chair slightly.

"Well, seems like a lifetime ago now." He chuckled, staring blankly down at the table as he revisited those memories.

"I was stupid, brazen... careless." He summarised, a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. "I loved fighting... bare knuckle boxing was a special favourite of mine."

"Oh goodness," you gasped quietly. You'd led somewhat of a sheltered life but you had some awareness (having grown up in Lambeth) the types of folk who frequented those fighting clubs scattered all around the city.

"Yes it was.... Certainly a rush." He replied, scratching the back of his neck with his uninjured hand. "I imagine if you asked my sister, she would have much more to say than I do... I think I drove her mad."

The pair of you fell into silence, the apartment otherwise still for what felt like a few moments - besides the tepid bubbling of the stew on the stove top.

Your (eye colour) eyes studied the few picture frames littering the mantelpiece above the hearth, and quietly departed the table as you wandered over to have a look.

"May I?" You asked politely, Jacob nodding earnestly.

"Of course, love. Have a look." He replied quickly. It was reassuring to see he was being brighter with you already - but you knew you still had a long road ahead.

Carefully, you picked up one of the frames. In it was an old photograph of Jacob, Evie, another gentleman in traditional Indian attire and a small boy.

"Oh wow, where was this taken?" You noted the rather lush and almost tropical looking backdrop.

"That was India.... I went out there to visit Evie and her husband, Henry." Jacob said, studying the way you looked intently at the picture. His body tensed, as if he could predict what the next question would be.

"And who is this little boy stood with you?" You turned to show the picture to Jacob, and he quickly looked away - passing it off as if he was picking up his book again.

"Oh, just one of the kids who was in the village. I think his parents were from Cambridge, so he latched onto us on my visit." He responded with a small cough.

By the time you looked back over, he was buried in his book again. It was like some small, silent code that said 'no more conversation'.

You understood, re fastening your apron as you attended back to the stove to begin dishing out the food. At the end of the day, Jacob was your employer and you were there to serve - not pry. You were lucky he was so relaxed that he even let you ask questions and snoop at his belongings.

Yet as you plated up the warming meal, you began to naturally question all the details.

What did Jacob and Evie actually do? It seemed shrouded in mystery. You hoped you could uncover some more information, in due course - or you fear the curiosity might eat you alive.

-

It was late night now as you sat cross legged on your bed in your cotton night dress, with your diary in your lap and scrawling down various jottings of the previous day.

You wanted to write something, and felt perhaps it was too soon to send a letter home... it had only been a day after all. Therefore, sharing an anecdote in your diary seemed like the next best step.

Dear Diary,

Today was pleasantly surprising. I had expected Jacob to be the most hard headed, grumpy being in existence yet his demeanour has been changed already in the short time I have been here.

I still question my safety after what the seller on the stall said to me, but with Jacob's kind offer to accompany me I hope I can soon shake that feeling.

You set the diary with its wet ink aside, to the small bedside table where a candle flickered passively. In a moment you found yourself looking all around the room, at its details again and wondering exactly who perhaps occupied this space of what it was used for. It just gave the impression it was well lived in before being abandoned. If only the walls could talk.

-

Exhausted, you retired to bed under an hour later - knowing it would be another early start and a busy day tomorrow.

As with all new surroundings, it took you some time to drift off - and when you did, it seemed a feather-light sleep anyway.

Just as well, given the raucous you heard in the small hours of the morning.

Sitting bolt upright in a flash, your body became all too aware of the sounds of a crash and what sounded like Jacob screaming in distress.

Admittedly, you were absolutely terrified - but you knew you had to face whatever this was, and look after the man you were here to serve.

With rapid unease, you grasped one of the candles in the corridor upon exiting your room, skirts of your white night dress billowing with each hurried step.

"Mr Frye!?" You yelled, the fear evidently shaking on each octave of your voice. Your bare feet trod on the cold boards, as you fled into the main area of the apartment - where Jacob's bedroom was behind a partition wall just off the space.

His anguished shouts were incredibly distressing, and the fact he hadn't replied to you unsettled you greatly.

Pushing back the anxiety of the possible 'what ifs' of the situation - you barrelled into his bedroom space and set the candle down on the large chest of drawers on the wall adjacent to his bed.

In the soft and subdued glow of the candle light, you could see his eyes were closed tight and his expression was screwed up in pain and terror.

He was having a nightmare, and it became more clear how bad it was when he didn't respond to any of your calls. You didn't know what to do.

"No!" He bellowed, eyes still firmly shut, "no, you can't keep doing this!"

Desperate, you sat down hastily on the edge of his bed and tried to still him.

"Mr Frye please wake up!" You pleaded with the catatonic man, "it's only a nightmare." You tried to reason, feeling a fool. Could he even hear you? Would you be able to get him to come round?

His frustration and anger melded more into panic and pain, as you watched the tension in his face meld down into something more of primal fear, this deep childlike emotive upset racking his expression.

"No.... I won't..." he was physically shaking, "I won't let you hurt anyone else...."

"Mr Frye-!" You called again, breath rising and falling fast with desperation. You felt you were running out of options to ease the situation.

"This has to stop!" He cried out, his voice fragmented and cracked with sadness. "You... you... you're better.... Than this...." He was near enough crying in his sleep.

A strange realisation occurred to you, remember when your half brother would get night terrors and cry in his sleep.

You reflected on the only way you had been able to soothe him.

So, with some hesitation - you carefully brushed your fingertips slowly over his forehead, gentle and delicate strokes.

"Jacob.... It's alright...." You whispered, hushing him as if he were an infant. As you shushed mildly, your fingertips tracing slowly back and forth between his forehead and the bridge of his nose, you watched the unrest and all of the anguish dissipate from him. It was like the storm clouds fleeing, and the rays of sun just breaking through.

He went quiet, and you watched the jagged breaths of his bare chest once again settled into deep, slow rising and falling.

After some minutes, (and feeling quite sleepy yourself) you oh so carefully and quietly tried to move - your retreating touch rousing a somewhat irritated groan from the man sleeping just beneath you. However, luckily he didn't stir.

Anxious he might spiral again, you tiredly waited some minutes before leaving to head back to your room - just watching him sleeping soundly. Once you were content he wasn't going to explode into some frenzy again, you stifled and yawn and crept back to bed.

As you slipped under the sheets, you were frankly concerned about the night terror you just witnessed. What awful thing could Jacob have possibly been dreaming about? You figured maybe it was some lasting trauma related to him being knocked over and sustaining his injuries, poor man.

As you laid down and shut your eyes, the mental image of Jacob's contorted face during the nightmare haunted you. You did worry about his mental state, following such a period of physical set back.

Yet, as you turned over and tried to clear your mind - you gathered it was something you could investigate further in the morning.