Moving South.

The British Heart Foundation van arrived just after nine, its engine low and steady on the quiet street. She had left the sofa, the chair she never liked, the fridge, the kettle, and the television on the driveway. The workers lifted each item carefully into the back of the van. She watched them in silence, each familiar object disappearing into a white cube of a van. By the time it drove away, the flat felt empty, almost unreal, but lighter.

She had sold the rest of her belongings, leaving only what she could carry herself: two suitcases, a backpack, and the hope she held carefully between folds of clothes.
She closed the front door behind her, the click of the lock sharp in her ears. The street looked ordinary, familiar, and painfully still. Pavements cracked under her shoes as she tested the weight of her luggage. Middlesbrough pressed on her chest like a sigh of farewell, familiar memories tangled with nerves and excitement. She adjusted her backpack and let her gaze travel down the street. The shops she had walked past daily now seemed like strangers, the pavement stretching out before her a long corridor of possibility.

A gust of cold wind made her shiver. She tightened the scarf around her neck, hugged her bag closer, and started the walk to the station. Each step made her pulse quicken. The smell of petrol mixed with wet concrete and the faint aroma of baked bread from the corner shop. She glanced at the shop window, her reflection staring back, anxious but determined. She whispered a prayer, letting Psalm 90:12 run quietly through her mind: Teach us to number our days. Each step mattered, each decision had to.

By mid-afternoon she arrived at Middlesbrough Station. Steam hissed from the platforms and the clatter of suitcases on the tiled floor made her palms clammy. Her train waited, rattling along steel tracks, and the towns outside blurred as it carried her south. Fields folded into towns, towns into grey stretches, and she felt her pulse climb with the unknown of London ahead. The platform attendants’ whistles, the screech of brakes, the faint metallic smell of diesel, all seemed louder than usual, every sense on alert.

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Victoria Station was chaos in motion. Crowds surged, people jostling with umbrellas and backpacks, rushing in every direction. Signs pointed every which way, and she navigated with careful steps, suitcase wheels rattling along the worn floor. The bus to her bed and breakfast rattled past, horns blaring, the smell of exhaust thick in the air. She clutched her small bag tightly, suitcases left safely at the B&B. Every step required focus, every corner a potential misstep in the city she had only just arrived in. She whispered her rules, almost like a mantra: never enter a flat without a deposit, keep your eyes open, ask carefully, nobody owed her anything.

The bed and breakfast was modest, quiet, temporary. She unpacked only a small bag of essentials, leaving her two large suitcases locked in her room. Outside, the city hummed and roared, indifferent to her arrival. That night sleep came fitfully, broken by distant sirens, footsteps on the street below, and the low rumble of a train passing underground. She lay awake, listening, feeling both afraid and alive. She pictured the flats she would visit in the next two days, rehearsing questions, reminders, and safety rules in her mind.

Morning arrived grey and misty, with low clouds pressing against the rooftops. She wheeled her small bag along Tottenham Court Road, the soles of her shoes slick with rain and exhaustion pressing on her shoulders. Commuters hurried past, umbrellas bobbing, faces tight with focus. She clutched her bag and checked her Sweatcoin app. Every step counted, digital proof of movement in a city that could swallow her whole. Flats awaited at Angel, Highbury and Islington, Camden. Her heart thudded faster with each street, each doorway, each potential home.

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The first flat was tucked behind a narrow street. The landlord smiled and insisted she move in immediately. Her stomach twisted. Something about his laugh made her pause. She remembered her rules. She did not have to risk it. She backed away, palms damp, relief flooding her when the open air returned. She walked along the street, chest tight, telling herself she could find better, safer, more real.

Day two pressed harder. She awoke sore, stiff, and anxious. Tube lines rattled beneath her, buses groaning under the weight of traffic. Streets she had walked only in maps now pressed up against her, noisy, crowded, unpredictable. Shops with glowing neon signs flickered in and out of sight, the smell of roasted coffee and wet asphalt mingling as she navigated busy intersections. She had almost accepted one flat, cheap and urgent, promising instant move-in. The door lock looked flimsy, the walls thin, and a pit of anxiety settled in her stomach. She walked away, trembling with fatigue, knowing she had escaped disaster.

Evenings were quieter, spent at the B&B. She hunched over the laptop, sending CVs, reading polite rejection emails that made her chest ache. She noted lessons in a small notebook: follow up, check requirements, stay polite. She murmured prayers as she wrote, reminders to persevere, to keep walking, to keep trusting. Numbers mattered, time mattered, patience mattered. She closed the laptop late, legs aching, eyes heavy, and let sleep find her reluctantly.

By the morning of the third day, exhaustion pressed her down like lead. Flats were vanishing from listings, landlords delayed or unresponsive. She almost accepted one urgent, cheap flat. Her chest tightened, panic fluttered in her stomach. She walked away, trembling, every muscle protesting, sweat soaking her bag. She had come too far to compromise.

Later that morning, her attention caught a listing she had nearly ignored. A quiet street, small brick building, sunlight spilling through the windows. She walked slowly, deliberately, examining locks, walls, corners, even the hallway. The landlord, a woman, smiled warmly and accepted her deposit without hesitation. Relief rolled through her, strong and warm, almost dizzying. She had found it, safe, modest, real.

She returned to the bed and breakfast, heart racing, to collect her two suitcases and backpack. Each step back to the flat felt lighter, hope carried in every breath. Moving the suitcases inside, she let them find their place among the rooms. She touched the windows, breathed in the faint smell of fresh paint, and let herself believe that London could be home.

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Her prayers shifted. No longer for safety alone, but for the next step: a job, new friends, a church that might become family.

Psalm 90:12 whispered softly again: Teach us to number our days. She smiled, exhausted but steady, knowing she would.

The city stretched out around her, vast, alive, and patient. She stepped carefully into the streets, a small figure among millions, carrying luggage and hope, ready to explore it, one deliberate step at a time.