The Healer of Hollow Street

“Rash! You’ll miss the morning slot!”

His mother’s voice carried from the kitchen, thin but firm, like the whistle of a kettle.

“I’m gone already, Mum,” Rashford called, hopping on one foot as he tugged a boot over a frayed sock. “If I don’t crash this scooter today, it’ll be a miracle.”

Evelyn Cole appeared at the doorway with her apron still tied. “Don’t joke about crashing. We’ve had enough bad luck for a lifetime.”

Rashford’s grin softened. “Sorry. Habit.” He bent, kissed her cheek, and grabbed the brown-paper parcel from the counter. “Two drops, then Hollow Street takeaway shift.”

“Eat something first,” she said.

“I’ll grab a sandwich.”

“You never do.”

He winked, helmet in hand, and stepped out into the cool London dawn. Hollow Street was waking up, buses groaning, shop shutters rattling, pigeons claiming roofs like landlords.

Rashford zipped his jacket, shoved his earbuds in, and kicked his scooter to life. “Another day, another complaint,” he muttered, weaving past puddles.

A neighbor waved. “Rash! Still doing deliveries? Thought you’d quit that nonsense.”

“Dream job’s still in the post!” Rashford shouted back.

They called him odd, the “weird medic.” They didn’t know that sometimes, when he brushed a hand against someone’s arm, he felt the rhythm of their heartbeat in his own fingers.

He told no one except his mother. She said he’d inherited something from his father, the man who used to cure without medicine, before a bullet stopped him.

Rashford turned onto the main road. “Cole, where are you?” crackled the radio at the depot.

“On route, boss. Ten minutes tops.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“And I delivered, yesterday,” Rashford replied, dodging a taxi.

“You better, or I’ll dock your pay.”

“Dock away. It’s already a dinghy.”

He laughed at his own line, but his eyes flicked toward the skyline. Rain clouds pressed low, bruised purple. He felt that strange humming again in his palms, a static under the skin.

He flexed his fingers on the throttle. “Easy, mate,” he murmured to himself. “Not now.”

By noon, London traffic was a cage of horns. Rashford parked outside a sandwich bar, handed over the parcel, and accepted a tip of fifty pence. “Big spender,” he muttered.

“You say somethin’, bruv?” the customer asked.

“Just thank you, sir.”

He pocketed the coin and started back toward Hollow Street. The city smelled of wet asphalt and fried chips, comfort and chaos mixed together.

That was when he heard it, a metallic shriek, the kind that cuts through music and thought alike. “Oi! Watch out!” someone screamed.

Rashford turned his head just in time to see a silver saloon spin across the intersection, tires screaming. A delivery van swerved, clipped its rear, and the car flipped, metal crushing against the curb.

Without thinking, Rashford dropped his bike. The parcel burst open behind him; muffins rolled into the gutter. He ran. “Stay back!” a bystander shouted. “It might explode!”

“There’s someone inside!” Rashford yelled, already at the driver’s door.

Smoke hissed from the bonnet. A woman lay half-slumped over the wheel, blood trickling down her temple. Her leg was twisted at a wrong angle, bone pressing against the skin.

“Ambulance on the way!” someone shouted.

“She’s bleeding now!” Rashford snapped. “Hand me that jacket!”

A man hesitated, then threw it. Rashford ripped the jacket, pressed it to the wound, and reached for the broken limb. His palms burned, not from heat, but from the energy that pulsed beneath them.

He heard his mother’s voice in memory: If you ever must, do it quietly. “Miss, look at me,” he said softly. “You’re safe. Breathe.”

Her eyes fluttered open, glassy with pain. “My leg… please…”

“I’ve got you.”

A small crowd gathered, phones raised. Rashford ignored them. He placed both hands along the fracture, closed his eyes, and focused.

For a second, the world went silent, no sirens, no shouting, just the rhythm of two heartbeats merging.

A low crack, not of breaking but of realignment, rippled beneath his palms. Skin knit, swelling ebbed. The woman gasped, eyes wide. “What… what did you”

“Hold still,” he whispered.

The burning stopped. Sweat rolled down his temple. When he pulled back, her leg looked almost untouched, only a faint bruise remained.

Someone shouted, “He fixed her! Mate, he fixed her leg!”

Phones lifted higher. Flashlights flickered. Rashford stepped back, heart pounding. “No… I just, she was lucky, yeah?”

The sirens finally reached them. Two medics ran over, confusion flashing across their faces when they saw the woman standing. “She’s fine?” one muttered. “Impossible. We got a trauma call.”

“She just needed a little help,” Rashford said quickly. “Guess I’ve got magic hands.” He tried to laugh. It sounded wrong.

The medics exchanged looks, guiding the woman toward the ambulance. “Sir, your name?” a police officer asked, notepad ready.

“Rashford Cole. Delivery service.”

“You a medic?”

“No.”

“But you just set her bone like you’ve done it a hundred times.”

“Lucky guess,” Rashford replied, wiping his hands on his jeans.

The officer frowned. “We’ll need a statement.”

“Sure thing.”

Behind him, a teenager whispered to her friend, “That’s insane. Did you see his hands glow?”

“They didn’t glow,” another said, “but he did something. I got it on video.”

Rashford’s stomach tightened. He could already feel the eyes, the questions, the unwanted attention. He slipped away as the crowd swelled, ducking into a side alley.

His scooter lay on its side, mirror cracked. He picked it up and sat on the curb, trembling. “Brilliant, Rash,” he muttered. “Couldn’t just wait for the medics. Had to be the hero.”

He checked his palms; they looked ordinary, but they ached. Beneath the skin, the hum persisted, alive, hungry, demanding.

He looked up at the grey sky. “Dad,” he whispered, “what did you pass on to me?”

His phone buzzed. Mum: Saw a video online. Please tell me that’s not you.

Rashford stared at the screen. On a stranger’s feed, he saw himself kneeling beside the wreck, hands pressed to the woman’s leg.

The caption read: “Delivery Guy Heals Crash Victim, Real-Life Miracle in London?”

Views climbed by the second. Rashford exhaled, half a laugh, half a sigh. “Well, mate,” he said to his reflection in a puddle, “you wanted attention.”

Somewhere behind him, an unmarked black car slowed to a stop. A man in a dark coat watched through tinted glass, phone to his ear. “Yes,” the man said. “We’ve found him.”