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The Bench in the Courtyard Victor Stevens stepped out into the courtyard just after one. A dull ache pressed at his temples—he’d finished the last of the holiday salads yesterday, and spent the morning taking down Christmas decorations and packing away ornaments. The house was too quiet. He pulled on his hat, slipped his phone into his pocket, and went downstairs, steadying himself on the banister as usual. In the pale January noon, the courtyard looked like a stage set: shoveled walkways, untouched drifts of snow, not a soul in sight. Victor Stevens brushed off the bench by the second entrance, letting the snow fall softly from the wooden slats. It was a good place to think, especially when it was deserted—you could sit for five minutes and go home refreshed. “Mind if I join you?” a man’s voice asked. Victor turned his head. Tall guy, navy blue jacket, mid-fifties. The face was vaguely familiar. “Have a seat, there’s plenty of room,” Victor said, sliding over. “Which flat are you from?” “Number forty-three, second floor. Three weeks since I moved in. I’m Michael.” “Victor Stevens,” he replied automatically, shaking the offered hand. “Welcome to our quiet corner.” Michael pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Mind if I smoke?” “Go ahead, by all means.” Victor hadn’t smoked in ten years, but the scent of tobacco unexpectedly reminded him of the newsroom where he’d spent most of his working life. He caught himself wanting to breathe in the smoke, then quickly pushed the feeling away. “You lived here long?” Michael asked. “Since ’87. The whole block was just built then.” “I used to work nearby, at the Metalmaker’s Community Centre. Sound engineer.” Victor started. “With Valery Zakharovich?” “That’s right! And you—how do you know him?” “Did a feature on him. Back in ’89, for the anniversary concert. Remember when ‘August’ played?” “I could tell you the whole concert, start to finish!” Michael grinned. “We lugged in a massive speaker; the power supply was sparking…” The conversation took on a life of its own—names, stories, some funny, some bittersweet. Victor found himself thinking he ought to go home, but every time, the talk drifted on—musicians, equipment, backstage secrets. He hadn’t talked like this in ages. In his later years at the paper, it was all deadline pieces, and since retiring, he’d withdrawn. He convinced himself it was easier, not to depend on anyone, not to get attached. But now something inside felt like it was thawing. “You know,” Michael said, stubbing out his third cigarette, “I’ve still got a whole archive at home. Posters, photos. Concert tapes I made myself. If you’re interested…” Why would I need that? Victor thought. Then you have to visit, keep talking. Maybe he’ll want to be friends, upend your routines. And what new things would I even see? “I’d like that,” he said. “When suits you?” “Tomorrow, say around five? I’ll be back from work by then.” “Let’s do it.” Victor pulled out his phone and opened contacts. “Take my number. If anything changes, just call.” That night, he couldn’t sleep. He replayed their talk, remembered details from old stories. He reached for his phone several times—to cancel, to make excuses. He didn’t. In the morning, he woke to a call. On screen: “Michael, neighbor.” “Still up for it?” Michael’s voice sounded a little uncertain. “Yes,” Victor replied. “See you at five.”

The Bench in the Courtyard Edward Thompson drifted into the courtyard just as the church clock tolled one.

La vida

The kitchen’s marble floor was icy, unyielding, and relentless. There, upon that frigid ground, sat Mrs. Rosalie, a 72-year-old woman.

The marble tiles in the kitchen were cold, hard, unforgiving. On that icy floor sat Rose, a frail 72yearold

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The Runaway Bride: A Tale of Love and Escape

The first time I ever found myself at a wedding where the bride bolted was a shock Ill never shake off.

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No More “You Have To”: Anton Comes Home to Dried Pasta and Teen Silence, Decides to Talk Honestly with Vera and Kostya About Worries, Not-So-Perfect Days, and What Family Really Means

Without the “Must” It seems so vivid now, thinking back to those evenings in the old terraced

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Now That You’ll Have a Child of Your Own, It’s Time for Her to Go Back to the Orphanage

Youll finally have a child of your own, so its time to send her back to the orphanage. When is my son

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The Bench in the Courtyard Victor Stephens stepped out into the courtyard just after one. His temples throbbed—the last of the holiday salads had been finished off yesterday, and this morning he’d packed away Christmas decorations. The house felt too quiet. Pulling his cap over his ears, he pocketed his phone and carefully descended the stairs, gripping the banister as usual. In the pale January midday, the courtyard looked like a stage set: cleared pathways, untouched drifts of snow, not a soul in sight. Victor brushed off the bench by the second entrance. Snow tumbled softly from the wooden planks. This was a good place to think, especially when it was deserted—a few minutes on the bench, then back inside. “Mind if I join you?” a man’s voice asked. Victor turned his head. A tall man in a navy coat, about fifty-five, with a vaguely familiar face. “Plenty of room,” Victor replied, scooting over. “Which flat are you from?” “Forty-three, second floor. Moved in three weeks ago. Michael.” “Victor Stephens,” he said, shaking the offered hand automatically. “Welcome to our quiet corner.” Michael produced a pack of cigarettes. “Is it alright if I smoke?” “Go on, feel free.” Victor hadn’t smoked in ten years, but the tobacco scent suddenly carried him back to the newsroom where he’d spent most of his life. He caught himself wanting to inhale it and quickly pushed the thought aside. “How long have you lived here?” Michael asked. “Since ’87. The whole block was brand new back then.” “I used to work nearby at the Metalworkers’ Community Centre. Sound technician.” Victor perked up. “With Valery Zachary?” “That’s right! You knew him?” “I wrote a profile on him, back in eighty-nine. For that anniversary concert. Remember when ‘August’ performed?” “I could tell you every detail of that show!” Michael grinned. “We dragged in these giant speakers, the power supply kept sparking…” The conversation took on a life of its own. Names surfaced, stories—some funny, some bittersweet. Victor found himself thinking he should be heading home, but each memory led to another: musicians, equipment, backstage secrets. He’d grown unaccustomed to long chats. In his last years at the paper he only churned out urgent copy, and after retiring, he closed himself off. He’d convinced himself it was easier not to rely on anyone, not to get attached. But now, something inside was slowly thawing. “You know,” Michael stubbed out his third cigarette, “I’ve still got an archive at home. Posters, photos. Concert tapes, too—I did the recordings myself. If you’d like to see them…” What for? Victor wondered. Then I’ll feel obligated. What if he wants to become neighbourly friends—my routine will be thrown off. And what could I possibly see that’s new? “Could be worth a look,” Victor replied. “When’s good for you?” “Anytime. Five o’clock tomorrow? I’ll be in from work then.” “Alright,” Victor fished out his phone and opened his contacts. “Take my number, we’ll call if plans change.” That evening, he struggled to fall asleep. He replayed their conversation, called up old details. More than once he reached for the phone—ready to call it off and blame his busy schedule. But he never did. In the morning, he was woken by a call. The screen read: “Michael, neighbour.” “Changed your mind?” Michael’s voice sounded a little unsure. “No,” Victor answered. “I’ll see you at five.”

The Bench in the Courtyard Victor Stephens steps out into the courtyard just after one in the afternoon.

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What are you up to, Granddad? Fancy a stroll? At your age, I’d be staying indoors!

19May2025 Today I found myself once more by the dustladen lane that runs past the old brick cottages

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Now You’ll Have Your Own Child—It’s Time She Went Back to the Orphanage

Now you’ll have your own child, and it’s time for her to go back to the orphanage.

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The Last Summer at Home

Last Summer at Home William arrives on a Wednesday, when the midday sun is already warming the slate

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What If She Isn’t Really My Daughter? Why I Needed a DNA Test to Be Sure Nikita sat thoughtfully watching his wife, Olivia, dote lovingly on their newborn daughter. Yet he couldn’t shake a nagging thought: what if the baby wasn’t really his? Last year, Nikita had been sent away on a month-long work trip, and just weeks after returning, Olivia shared what she thought was wonderful news—they were expecting a child. At first, Nikita was overjoyed. But things changed when Olivia’s sister visited and, in passing, revealed that she too had taken a DNA test on her own son—to put any doubts her partner had about paternity to rest. “Liv, let’s do a DNA test as well—just for peace of mind,” Nikita suggested. Olivia exploded in anger, launching objects around the house, the argument so loud it prompted the neighbours to bang on the wall. “What? What’s so outrageous?” Nikita insisted, feeling his suspicions deepen. Her dramatic reaction only confirmed his fears. “I just want to be sure, that’s all.” “Have I ever given you a reason to doubt me?” Olivia cried, hurling another cushion. “I was away for a whole month,” Nikita pointed out. “How do I know what went on here?” He proposed they could get the clinic details from Olivia’s sister. Olivia, fuming, stormed out of the room, slamming the nursery door behind her. *** Nikita vented his worries to his mother, Anne. Over coffee, she quietly sided with him, even hinting at a suspicious incident: a time she had visited while Nikita was away, only for Olivia to take an unusually long time to answer the door—and, when she did, there were men’s shoes in the hallway. Though Anne was careful not to jump to conclusions, her story only stoked Nikita’s paranoia. She urged him to push for the test, if only for his own peace of mind as a father. *** In the end, Nikita got the test done secretly while out with the baby. When the results arrived, he declared: “You can relax—Aria is my daughter. Like I promised, I won’t bring this up ever again.” But Olivia was livid: “Did you really do the test without my permission?” “Yes, I did. I needed to know,” he admitted. “That’s a problem,” she replied sadly. The next day Nikita returned from work to find his wife and daughter gone, their things packed up. On the table lay a single note: “Your lack of trust has destroyed everything. I won’t live with a traitor—I want a divorce. I don’t want anything from you, not the house or even support. I just want you out of our lives.” Enraged, Nikita tried calling Olivia—only for a man to answer, telling him to stop calling. Nikita assumed the worst, convinced she’d already moved on. The divorce was finalised swiftly; little Aria stayed with her mother and never saw her biological father again.

What if shes not really my daughter? Maybe I should do a DNA test. James found himself watching his wife