Gerald stood by the window of his flat in Manchester, watching schoolchildren rush down the frosty morning street. Some bundled up in puffy coats, others stubbornly sporting skinny jeans with bare ankles despite the freezing temperature. The wind rattled the panes, but the kids seemed invincible. He snorted—almost envious. Took a sip of coffee. Bitter. Noticed too late, but couldn’t be bothered to go back to the kettle. His fingers trembled slightly. Age. Blood pressure. Or the quiet.
His phone screen flashed a missed call—his son. Gerald knew he ought to ring back. If not now, he’d hear it later: “You’re always too busy.” Except he wasn’t busy. Just didn’t know what to say. His boy was thirty-one, a grown man. Their conversations? Like diplomacy on the brink of collapse. Stiff. Careful. Distant. All the important things buried under years of unspoken resentments and silences. He’d even rehearsed once—jotted down topics. Still ended up with the same dull: “How’s work?”
He pulled on his worn overcoat, grabbed his ridiculous but warm knitted gloves, and stepped out. The cold slapped him straight in the face like a wet newspaper. The air smelled of coal smoke and fresh bread from the stall by the corner shop. Slippery underfoot, as if the whole city had been polished with ice. A woman sold pasties from a van nearby—steam curling out, the buttery scent of pastry. It reminded him. He used to buy them for Elaine. Hot ones, with cherry filling. She’d wince at the first tart burst, then laugh—properly, freely. Then she stopped. Laughing. Waiting. Being with him.
Now she lived in Brighton. New bloke, new job, new life. Called on birthdays. Her voice like dry leaves—no warmth, no lift. Always that faint tension, as if checking he was still exactly where she’d left him. Or maybe hoping he wasn’t.
He turned toward the park. Lived here over twenty years. The neighbourhood had changed—taller buildings, unfamiliar doorways. New neighbours. Only the memories stayed put. That bench where he’d held Elaine’s hand in ’98. The kerb where he sat after the call about his dad’s heart attack. All still here. Just not the people.
On a bench by the fountain—a girl. Young. Smoking. Hair mussed, eyes restless. Like she was waiting for someone but knew they wouldn’t come. A tote bag and a knitted blanket beside her. Gerald almost walked past, then caught her glance. Something in it—something horribly familiar—made him pause.
“Sorry,” she said quietly. “D’you live round here?”
“Suppose so,” he said. “You?”
“Waiting for someone. Said he’d come. Reckon he won’t.”
Her tone was flat. Almost calm. But her voice shook.
“Mind if I sit a minute? Feel a bit… I know it’s daft.”
“Not daft,” Gerald said, lowering himself beside her. “Sometimes you just need a body next to you. Doesn’t matter who.”
They sat in silence.
She stubbed out her fag against the bin edge, hands clenched between her knees.
“We split a year ago. Said maybe we’d talk again. Texted yesterday—told me to meet here. Ten o’clock. It’s half eleven now.”
“People rarely show when they promise. Specially if they think everything’s been said. Sometimes a meet-up’s just a quiet goodbye. No words needed.”
She hesitated. “You ever… waited for someone like that?”
Gerald didn’t answer at once. Watched the frost clinging to bare branches, the empty park.
“Whole life,” he said. “First, me dad. Then a woman. Then meself. Sometimes you’re waiting without knowing who for. Hoping someone’ll turn up and say, ‘I know it’s hard.’ But it’s just quiet. Or… someone else entirely.”
She didn’t ask who he meant. He didn’t explain.
They just sat. Five minutes. Ten.
Then she stood.
“Ta.”
“For what?”
“Being here. That’s all.”
She left. He stayed. Looked at the empty bench. Then pulled out his phone.
**Son.**
Pressed call.
His lad picked up straight away.
“Dad? You rang?”
“Yeah. I, uh… Fancy the park Saturday? No reason. Just a chat.”
A pause.
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
Gerald hung up. Slowly stood. Watched footprints sink into fresh snow. Breathed in. Out.
Then walked on.
Carefully.
So as not to miss the important bits.
