A bus pulled away from the kerb on a quiet street in west Melbourne. Only one person had alighted, a young man wearing a jacket and jeans, hood pulled up to protect him from the last of the rain from an earlier thunderstorm. He carried a huge bunch of cheap, but pretty flowers, and wore a backpack.
He looked around, unsure of himself. Checked the time and turned back to wait for another bus. His eyes kept flicking to a house up the road. Small, humble, and with its porch light on. The rain stopped and he pushed the hoodie off, running a hand through a mop of brown hair. Someone appeared at the front window of the house, checking through the curtain before disappearing. As though unable to stop, he walked quickly to the front gate.
The letterbox had a name on it. Blackwell. He pushed the
