71. Wednesday Afternoon: A House Without Giants

Wednesday Afternoon: A House Without Giants

The two giants weren’t there today.

The semi-detached house felt almost claustrophobic in their absence. The walls, pressed tightly together, seemed to close in, their muted tones absorbing the weight of unspoken thoughts. The scent of spices and reheated leftovers drifted from the first-floor kitchen, mingling with the faint murmur of a radio—a familiar melody of routine.

Ted rarely went straight to his room on the second floor, no matter how drained he felt. Neither did most of the others. The kitchen was the heart of the house, the unspoken refuge where weary students gathered—not to talk, necessarily, but to exist together, to borrow warmth from the steam of the kettle or the quiet presence of others.

His footsteps echoed against the polished wood of the compact staircase, winding upwards in its tight, almost spiraling turns. Inside the kitchen, a couple of students were slouched around the table, their voices weaving through the small, cluttered space. A kettle sat steaming on the stove, a stack of mismatched mugs beside it, waiting for the next pair of hands.

Jose, from Room 6, leaned against the counter, munching on an apple. He gave Ted a once-over.

“Rough day?” His tone was casual, but the sympathy was there, tucked beneath the words.

Ted nodded, too tired to explain, and filled a mug with boiling water from the kettle. He plucked a tea bag from the communal box on the shelf, letting it steep as he leaned against the counter. The warmth in his hands was grounding, but his thoughts remained heavy, circling back to the same relentless worries.

A few minutes later, Peter Roske from Room 8 strolled in, his steps light as he navigated the narrow space.

“Evening, Ted,” he said, effortlessly polished in his British accent—Mansfield-born, but with a quiet, distinguished air from his Polish heritage. He reached for a biscuit from the tin on the table, then studied Ted with an amused smirk. “You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backward.”

Ted exhaled a short laugh, stirring his tea. “Something like that.”

The kitchen emptied out gradually, students retreating to their rooms. Ted lingered, reluctant to trade the low hum of companionship for the silence of Room 7. But eventually, he drained the last sip of tea, rinsed his mug, and made his way up the steep, compact stairs.

On the second floor, the dimly lit landing stretched between the rooms, peeling wallpaper and creaky floorboards giving the house its worn but familiar charm. Jose’s door to Room 6 was slightly ajar, music spilling out in soft waves. Peter’s door to Room 8 was shut, but the low murmur of his television leaked through.

Ted reached Room 7, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. The small room greeted him with its usual disarray—papers strewn across the desk, an unmade bed, an engineering textbook abandoned on the chair from that morning. He sank onto the mattress, staring up at the cracked ceiling as the day’s events replayed in his mind.

It was a pattern. A rhythm dictated by the structure of the house, by the movements of its inhabitants. For Ted, the routine was predictable. But the emotions that came with it—dejection, frustration, and the faintest flicker of hope—never were.