**The Last Minute**
Edward stood by the window of his flat in Sheffield, watching schoolchildren hurry down the frost-covered pavement. Some bundled up in thick coats, others braved the cold in jeans and trainers, unfazed by the biting wind. The glass rattled slightly as winter clawed at the pane, but the kids laughed and shoved each other like it was nothing. He chuckled dryly—almost envious—then took a sip of coffee. Bitter. Too late to fix it now. His fingers trembled slightly. Age, perhaps. Or loneliness.
His phone screen lit up—a missed call from his son. Edward knew he should ring back. If he didn’t, he’d hear it later: *”You’re always too busy.”* But he wasn’t busy. He just never knew what to say. His son was thirty-one now, a man grown. Their conversations felt like tense negotiations, stripped of warmth, every word a careful step around unsaid things. He’d tried rehearsing once, but it always came down to the same dull *”How’s work?”*
He tugged on his old overcoat, grabbed the ridiculous knitted gloves—warm, at least—and stepped outside. The cold hit like a slap. The air smelled of coal smoke and fresh bread from the stall near the corner shop. The pavement glittered with frost, slippery as glass. A van stood nearby, selling pasties—steam curling from the cracked-open door, the scent of buttery pastry thick in the air. He remembered buying them for Emily once, still warm, the cherry filling too hot, making her wince and laugh. Proper laughter, back then. Before she stopped. Before she left.
Now she was in Manchester. New husband, new job, new life. She rang on holidays, her voice dry as dead leaves. No warmth, just quiet suspicion, as if checking he hadn’t moved—or hoping he had.
He turned toward the park. He’d lived here over twenty years. The neighbourhood had changed—taller buildings, unfamiliar faces. Only the memories stayed. That bench where he’d held Emily’s hand in ’98. The kerb where he’d slumped after the call about his father’s death. The places remained. The people didn’t.
A girl sat by the fountain. Young. Smoking. Her hair tangled, eyes restless, like she was waiting for someone who wouldn’t come. A bag and a blanket beside her. Edward nearly walked past, but her gaze caught him—so full of loneliness he stopped without thinking.
“Sorry,” she said softly. “D’you live round here?”
“Suppose so,” he said. “You?”
“I’m waiting for someone. Said he’d come. Don’t think he will.” Her voice was calm, but it shook.
“Mind if I sit a minute? Feels odd asking, but…”
“Not odd,” Edward said, sitting beside her. “Sometimes you just need someone there. Doesn’t matter who.”
They sat in silence.
She stubbed out her cigarette, hands clasped between her knees. “We split a year ago. He said we might talk again. Texted yesterday—told me to meet him here. Ten o’clock. It’s past eleven now.”
“People don’t always come when they say,” Edward said. “Sometimes a meeting’s just goodbye without the words.”
“Have you… ever waited for someone?”
He didn’t answer at first. Watched the frost-laced trees, the empty park.
“All my life,” he said. “First my dad. Then a woman. Then myself. Sometimes you wait without knowing who for. Hoping someone’ll turn up and say, *’I know it’s hard.’* But it’s just silence. Or a stranger.”
She didn’t ask who he meant. He didn’t explain.
They sat. Five minutes. Ten.
Then she stood. “Ta.”
“For what?”
“For being here. Just… being here.”
She walked off. He stayed, staring at the empty bench. Then pulled out his phone.
*”Son.”*
Pressed call.
He answered straight away. “Dad? You rang?”
“Yeah. I… wondered. Fancy the park Saturday? Just to talk.”
A pause.
“Alright,” his son said. “Been meaning to.”
Edward hung up. Stood slowly. Watched footprints darken the snow. Inhaled. Exhaled.
Then walked on.
Carefully.
So as not to miss what mattered.
