On the corner of High Street, in York, there stood a mannequin in the window of a clothing shop. It was always dressed the same—white shirt, grey trousers, and a crooked beret no one ever fixed. A forgotten figure, it had been there over a decade. So still, so much a part of the scenery, that most barely noticed it anymore. But the local shopkeepers had grown fond of it. Every morning, as they opened their doors, they’d say, “Good morning, Mr. Albert”—the name they’d given it as a joke, a little ritual to start the day. The baker, the newsagent, the florist… they all greeted the mannequin. And it, of course, never answered.
Until one day, it did.
It was a Monday. The shop window was fogged with morning dew. When the shopkeepers passed by and said, “Good morning, Mr. Albert,” the mannequin smiled. It moved. And softly replied, “Good morning, folks.”
They all froze.
It wasn’t a mannequin. It was a man—his name really was Albert. He was 74. For months, he’d been the shop’s nightwatchman after losing his home, his family far away, with nowhere else to go. So at night, he slept in the stockroom. By day, when the shop opened, he stood still behind the glass, pretending to be a mannequin. Not as a prank, but because there, behind the window, he felt less alone.
“I like watching people start their day,” he said. “And at least here… no one looks through me.”
The story spread when a lad filmed it and shared it online. It went viral. Thousands left comments: “We think no one sees us… but someone’s always watching from the other side of the glass.”
Now, Mr. Albert no longer pretends. The shop hired him as a greeter. He sits by the window, smiling at passersby, and every morning, when they say, “Good morning, Mr. Albert,” he replies with words that’ve stuck in the neighbourhood:
“Good morning… and thank you for seeing me.”
Today, I walk past that shop and think—how many of us stand invisible, waiting for someone to look? A small kindness costs nothing, but to the unseen, it’s everything.
