‘Sorry. Are you okay?’ It was him talking, him apologising, when it should be her.

The man pushed himself up on his hands and knees, and finally Petra forced herself to move.

‘Jeez, are you alright? I’m just standing here like a…’ She squatted down and tentatively went for his waist to try and help him up, but her tote bag slipped from her shoulder and she didn’t know if she should touch him without his permission. A hesitance she’d picked up in England.

He had soft eyes in a gentle face, the skin of his forehead slightly care-weathered, Petra fancied; a trim beard with a bit of salt in it. He could be anything between thirty and late forties.

Petra forced herself to snap out of her stare again – this wasn’t the way she normally behaved, but there was something about this man that spoke of deep things, like home, familiarity, and love, and acceptance. In his eyes, she felt she didn’t have to choose a pose. If he could just keep looking at her like that, with those kind and open eyes, then she’d know that she belonged. She spent a lot of time later trying to understand this sense. Some people might call it love at first sight.

By this time, he had stood up and was gingerly swivelling his neck, crackling his spine back into place. On his right knee his jeans were ripped, but she didn’t know whether they had been before the fall. Because that’s what it had been, she now realised, piecing together the evidence of the fully extended metal ladder propped against the wall beside them, leading up to an open sash window on the first floor. A large canvas sack, heavy with something angular, was swinging by one handle from the top of the ladder.

‘What happened? What were you doing?’

‘Stupid,’ he said, brushing himself off. ‘I thought it would be easier to lower the stuff out the window than go all the way round the stairs. I was leaning too far out the window and I was distracted. I thought I saw someone… The rope slipped and I couldn’t let go and…’

He stopped talking as he turned his attention to Petra. He scanned her down, then up again, frowning. ‘Do I know you from somewhere?’

‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘I would have…’ She tried to stuff the words back in her mouth but failed. ‘…remembered.’ She was blushing, she was sure. It felt hot in her clothes. She lowered her eyes and saw blood drooling from the muddy graze at his knee. ‘Oh, God – you’re bleeding. You’d better sort that out.’

He followed her gaze and waved it off. ‘Ah, it’s nothing. I’ll wash it off inside.’

‘Can I help you?’

‘Uh, I’ll be alright.’ He smiled. ‘Thanks.’ He bent and picked up her bag and offered it to her.

‘Okay. If you’re sure.’

He nodded and disappeared through the house’s red front door.