The afternoon sun dips toward the horizon, spilling warm light over the dusty pathways. At the edge of a tidy courtyard, fenced in by tall iron railings, beneath the broad canopy of an oak tree, sits Peter Wilson. He loves this bench—the first one from the building, with a perfect view of the entire grounds. Here, he notices every rustle, every new car, every arrival—like a chronicler among forgotten fates.
He leans back against the bench, stretching his legs forward. A gentle breeze tugs at his grey hair like a mischievous child. His eyes are closed, but his hearing is sharp. He catches the soft hiss of tyres as a car brakes smoothly beyond the gates.
Cracking one eye open, Peter glances toward the street. The tinted windows of the sleek, expensive sedan reveal nothing. Moments later, the rear door swings open, and a heavyset, well-dressed man in a leather jacket steps onto the pavement. He hurries to the boot, pulling out two suitcases.
“Come on, Mum, we’re here. See how lovely it is?” he says with forced cheer, peering back into the car.
Behind him, shuffling and leaning heavily on a walking stick, steps an elderly woman. Small, hunched, her face tight with tension. A mother.
“Son, take the bags and head to reception. I’ve got to dash,” he adds without even looking at her.
“Mum, don’t drag it out. I haven’t got all day,” the younger man mutters irritably, slamming the boot shut.
Peter smirks faintly. “Another addition… another soul discarded, like an unwanted thing.” His heart gives its familiar twinge, and he instinctively reaches for the pill in his pocket.
Minutes later, the reception doors bang shut. The man hurtles out, slips into his car, and drives off without a backward glance. The car vanishes around the corner.
Peter closes his eyes. A memory flickers—Grace, his Grace, alive, whispering something soft and warm to him in the mornings. Always together, sharing everything. Even dreaming—if death came, it would come for them both on the same day.
But one morning, he woke to find her eyes already open—and still.
His world collapsed. He didn’t eat, didn’t light the fire. Just lay there in the cold silence until a neighbour came by and rang his son.
His son arrived the next day.
“Dad, don’t bring much. We’ll get you whatever you need. You’ll stay with us—the guest room’s empty,” he urged, stuffing his father’s things into a bag.
“Help me take Grace’s picture off the wall,” Peter said quietly.
“What do you need it for?” his son sighed, but seeing the look in his father’s eyes, he relented.
His daughter-in-law met them with pinched lips and a tight smile.
“Oliver, be reasonable—I couldn’t leave him there!” his son whispered in the kitchen.
“And where are *my* guests supposed to sleep? Under the bed?” she shot back. “A retirement home never crossed your mind? Who’ll look after him? Me? Not a chance, clear?”
Peter heard everything. He stepped into the hall, leaning against the doorframe.
“Son, she’s right. Sort the paperwork. I’ll give permission to sell the house. Just don’t fight, please.”
“See?” his daughter-in-law chimed in, brightening. “He understands. Unlike some people. Come in, Peter, we’ll sort it all out.”
He shakes his head, as if shaking off the past. Dabs his face with a handkerchief and rises slowly from the bench. His leg aches, but he walks toward the building—to see where they’ve settled the newcomer.
The woman sits in an armchair by the farthest door. Small, neat, clutching a handkerchief she twists and then smooths out in trembling fingers. Trying to hold herself together, but her lips quiver.
“Well… welcome,” Peter says, awkwardly. “I’m Peter. And you?”
“Mary… Wilson,” she murmurs.
“Here by choice, or…?” he asks softly, but his eyes say, *I understand.*
“By choice, by choice. My son’s a big executive, my grandson’s studying to be a barrister. We’ve got everything, everything’s fine,” she insists, as though defending herself against the world.
*Right,* Peter thinks. *Dropped her like luggage. And she says ‘everything’s fine.’ Only a mother’s heart lies so bravely to protect her own.*
“I won’t be here long… Just resting, then they’ll fetch me. I’m not used to sitting idle. I can’t… I can’t be without them.”
Tears well up, but she stubbornly swallows them. Peter stands.
“It’ll be alright. Hold on. I’ll… take a walk before bed.”
He doesn’t look back. He can’t.
Morning brings a flurry in the corridor. His roommate mentions casually,
“The new one’s gone. Didn’t make it. Heart, they reckon.”
Peter sits back on his bed, turning to face the wall. Silent.
“Rest now, love… You were kind. God bless, Mary,” he whispers, crossing himself, eyes squeezed shut.
Outside, a new day begins. The sun grazes the windowsills, timid, as if apologising for lighting a world where the forgotten now number one more.
