The bench in the park near Tower Hill had been lively over the summer. Schoolchildren licked ice cream, laughing and debating films and games. In autumn, workers in dusty high-vis jackets stopped by to eat, swapping stories about who’d quit, who’d married, who’d simply had enough. Now it was February. Grey. Frozen. Silent. The bench sat empty—except for Irene. Wrapped in her scarf like a cocoon, hidden from the world.
The wind tore the last brittle leaves from the trees, howled in her ears, crept under her coat. But she didn’t move. Just sat there, staring at the pavement as if an answer lay beneath the grit and ice. A meaning. Or at least a pause.
Beside her, a crumpled yogurt pot—breakfast swallowed mechanically, tasteless, unwanted. Forty minutes until her doctor’s appointment. She didn’t want to go. Didn’t want to go home either. There was nowhere to go. All she wanted was to sit. To be untouched. Unseen.
Yesterday, the clinic had said, “Nothing serious. Stress. Exhaustion. You need rest.” The doctor spoke with practised detachment. The nurse rustled paperwork. Irene nodded. Like she always did—at home, at work. Then she left, adrift. She didn’t feel like she was living anymore. Just watching from the other side of glass, where everything was visible but out of reach.
Every morning woke her with a lump in her throat and the urge to vanish. Not die—just disappear. Become invisible in crowds, on the Tube, in the school’s endless corridors. So no one would ask, *”Where’ve you been?” “Why didn’t you call?” “Why so quiet?”*
At home, her teenage son spoke in monosyllables. *”Eaten?” “Yeah.”* Her husband barely spoke at all. Silence thick as a wall between them, grey and impenetrable. No shouts, no fights—just nothing, as if love had run dry, leaving only hollow space.
Work was numbers in a school ledger. No one bothered her. A small mercy. But in that silence, she wanted to scream. Loud. Raw. Until it hurt.
Someone sat down beside her. An old man. No greeting, just the creak of the bench. A crumpled coat, a knitted cap. In his hands, a weathered newspaper, creased like winter gloves. He unfolded it with a grumble, wrestling the wind. Cleared his throat.
“Proper biting today. Goes right through you.”
Irene gave a slight nod. Not looking. The cold was sharp—but that wasn’t the point.
A few minutes passed.
“You seem a bit…” He paused. “Like you’re not really here.”
She almost smiled. First time in days.
“I am here. Just no one to talk to.”
“Ah,” he nodded. “Know the feeling. After my wife, same thing. World full of people, but no one there. Then it… faded. Dunno if I got used to the dog or just dried up inside. Or learned to talk to myself. Easier on a bench.”
She turned her head.
“How long’s it been?”
“Eight years. Counted at first. Stopped after. Only remember *her* birthday now. Not mine.”
She studied him. Wrinkles by his eyes. A quiet warmth in his gaze, unremarkable but alive—like an old blanket, plain and familiar.
“Who’re you waiting for?”
A faint, wry smile. “No one. Walls don’t press in out here. At home, they do. But here… air, people passing. Someone walking a cat. Another chewing crisps. Sometimes someone sits. We chat. Or don’t. That’s a talk too, if you’re quiet right.”
They fell silent. But not hollowly. Just together. Ten minutes unmoving. Trees creaked, a jogger passed, a dog barked in the distance. Then Irene felt it—a shift inside. Not pain. Not relief. Just life. A tiny crack, invisible till you prodded it. Now there.
“I just thought,” she murmured, “sometimes you don’t need a doctor. Just someone. Anyone who’ll sit. Won’t pry. Won’t demand answers. Just… be there.”
The old man said nothing. Just smoothed the newspaper on his knees, slow, like lulling a child. His silence wasn’t indifference—it was acceptance.
She never made it to the appointment. Just sat. Until the bus came. Then he stood, gave a slight nod, and left without looking back. Slow steps, a gentle stoop. She stayed.
But not the same.
Sometimes all you need is someone. Not family. Not forever. Just a person who’ll sit and keep you from dissolving into silence. Who’ll notice. Not judge. Not ask why. Just be. Beside you.
Sometimes that’s enough.
