Every morning, Albert stepped out of his old terraced house in a quiet Coventry suburb at exactly 7:45. Not because he had anywhere to be—retired, long out of work, his grown children moved away. It was just habit, the creak of the front door, the crunch of gravel underfoot, the chill that clung to his coat even in spring.
He walked past the corner shop where the clerks no longer bothered offering him coffee—they knew Albert always carried his thermos. He’d nod politely, as if to say, *All’s well. Same as ever.* The square, the benches, the pharmacy, the post office steps—they all knew his stride. Even the strays didn’t bark anymore. They knew he belonged.
His route always ended at the last wooden bench beneath the old oak. It was crooked, its surface worn smooth, one slat cracked down the middle. Years ago, when Albert still worked for the council—fixing signs, patching roofs, changing bulbs, laughing with the lads at lunch—he’d bolted it down himself. Back then, it felt like the neighbourhood stood on men like him. The bench, the rusted screws—they were still there. Weathered, but stubbornly holding on.
He’d sit, pour strong black tea into the thermos lid, unfold the paper across his lap (never reading, just holding it like something steady), and watch people pass: schoolchildren, commuters, errand-runners. Jackets changed, shoes changed, faces changed—but Albert remained. An anchor in the crossroads of time.
Sometimes someone joined him: the elderly woman from down the street, a perpetually late schoolboy, a bloke with a collie, a young woman with her own thermos, a teenager in headphones. They’d stay a few minutes, then leave. Albert stayed. As if he were part of the bench—its echo, its breath.
One day, a woman in her forties approached. Trench coat, camera around her neck. Hesitated, then stepped closer.
“Mind if I take your photo?”
He raised his brows.
“Me? Sure you’ve got the right bloke?”
“Yes. I’m working on a project. About people who didn’t leave. Who stayed. You… you’re like part of the city. Looking at you, it feels like not everything’s gone. Like someone’s still here. Someone real.”
He chuckled, set the paper aside.
“Go on, then. Just don’t say I’m napping. Don’t want folks thinking I’m some old codger dozing in the park.”
“I’ll write that you’re a keeper of time,” she smiled.
“Make sure it’s not gloomy. Bright, yeah? Not sad.”
A week later, his photo appeared in the local paper. Hundreds of comments: *I see him every morning too, He’s part of the street, The square’s not the same without him.* Albert read them, smiled quietly. And still he sat. Drank his tea, held his paper. Sometimes caught a stranger’s gaze—warm, grateful.
In spring, workmen came to replace the bench. Modern, grey, metal. Cold. New. No scent of wood, no marks of years. One worker glanced at Albert.
“Sad to see it go?”
He nodded—not at the bench, but at the shadow it once cast.
“Aye. But not just for me.”
He didn’t interfere. That evening, when all was quiet, he returned. Brought a tin of brown paint, a brush. Sat, silently traced a thin crack—right where the old slat had split. Like a memory. Like a mark.
Then he sat, poured tea, unfolded the paper. And the new bench creaked faintly. As if it understood.
After that, he was there again. Same spot, same time. Only the bench was different. But the tea was the same—bitter, faintly metallic. The paper, the same. The people, too—only a little older. They passed, nodded. Some stopped, some said *mornin’*. Once, a boy walking with his mum pointed.
“Mum, that’s the man. From the photo. He’s really real!”
Sometimes, to stay—you don’t need to go anywhere. Don’t need to speak loud. You just have to be. In one place. For a long time. With your whole heart. So one day, someone pausing for just a second might think: *Glad he’s here.* And smile—soft, quiet—to themselves.
