**The Diary of Alfred**
Every morning at half seven sharp, Alfred stepped out of his weathered bungalow in a quiet suburb of Leeds. It wasn’t that he had anywhere to be—retired now, the children gone and settled—just that his body remembered. The creak of the front gate, the crunch of gravel underfoot, the chill that clung to his overcoat even in spring.
He walked past the corner shop where the clerks no longer bothered offering him coffee—they knew by now Alfred always carried his thermos. He’d nod politely, as if to say, *Everything’s fine. Everything’s the same.* The park bench, the chemist’s, the post office steps—they all knew his stride. Even the neighbourhood strays had stopped barking. He was one of them.
His route always ended at the last wooden bench beneath an old oak. It was crooked, the seat worn smooth by time, with a splintered plank in the middle. Years ago, when he’d worked for the council, fixing signs, patching roofs, changing bulbs—he’d put that bench up himself. Back then, it felt like he was holding the place together. The bench, the bolts he’d tightened—still standing. Rusty, stubborn, alive.
He’d sit, pour strong tea into the lid-cup, spread the *Daily Telegraph* across his knees (not to read, just to hold—something steady). He’d watch the world pass: children to school, workers to jobs, people on errands. Jackets changed, shoes wore out, faces grew older. But he stayed. An anchor in the crossroads of time.
Sometimes, someone would join him: an elderly woman from down the lane, a schoolboy always running late, a bloke with a border collie, a girl with a thermos, a lad with earphones. They’d sit a few minutes, then leave. Alfred remained—like he was part of the bench itself. Its voice, its breath.
One day, a woman in her forties approached. A long coat, a camera round her neck. Hesitated, then said:
“Excuse me—could I take your picture?”
He raised a brow.
“Me? You sure?”
“Yes. I’m working on a project. About people who stayed. About those who didn’t leave. You—you look like part of the place. You make it feel… not all gone. Like something real’s still here.”
He chuckled, set the paper aside.
“Go on, then. Just don’t say I was napping. Don’t want folks thinking I’m some old codger dozing in the park.”
“I’ll say you’re the keeper of time,” she smiled.
“Make it cheerful, though. Not sad.”
A week later, his photo was in the local paper. Dozens of comments: *I see him every morning*, *He’s like part of the pavement*, *The lane’s not the same without him*. Alfred read them, smiled quietly. Still sat. Still drank his tea, held his paper. Sometimes, he’d catch a passerby’s glance—something oddly grateful in it.
Come spring, workmen arrived—a new bench. Steel, sleek, grey. Cold. No scent of wood, no marks of time. One labourer caught Alfred’s eye.
“Sad to see it go?”
Alfred nodded—but not at the bench. At the shadow it used to cast.
“Sad. Not just for me, though.”
He didn’t interfere. But that evening, when the street was empty, he came back. A tin of brown paint, a brush. He sat, quietly smoothing a thin crack—right where the old one had been. Like a memory. A mark.
Then he sat, poured tea, laid out the paper. And the new bench—just for a second—creaked. As if it understood.
After that, he was there again. Same spot, same time. Only the bench was different. But the tea—just as strong, faintly metallic. The paper—just the same. The people—unchanged, just older. They’d nod, some would say *Morning*, and once, a little boy walking with his mum pointed:
“Mum, look—that man from the photo! He’s really real!”
Sometimes, staying isn’t about going somewhere. It’s not about speaking up. It’s just—being. In one place. A long time. With all your heart. So one day, someone might pause, think *Glad he’s here*, and smile—softly, just to themselves.
Lessons don’t always need words. Some are written in benches.
