The Last Minute
Edward stood by the window of his flat in Manchester, watching schoolchildren hurry down the frosty morning street. Some wore thick grey coats, others jeans with bare ankles despite the biting cold outside. The wind rattled the glass, but the kids seemed untouchable. He gave a dry chuckle—almost envious. Took a sip of coffee. Bitter. Noticed too late, but couldn’t be bothered to go back to the kitchen. His fingers trembled slightly. Age. Blood pressure. Or maybe loneliness.
On his phone screen, a missed call blinked—Mark, his son. Edward knew he should call back. If he didn’t now, he’d hear it later: “You’re busy, like always.” But he wasn’t busy. He just never knew what to say. His son was thirty-one, a grown man. Their conversations were like diplomatic negotiations—distant, cautious, circling the unspoken. Everything important buried under layers of pride and silence. He’d even rehearsed once, planned what to say. It always came back to the same dull: “How’s work?”
He pulled on his old overcoat, grabbed the knitted gloves—warm, if a bit ridiculous—and stepped outside. The cold hit like a whip. The air smelled of coal smoke and fresh bread from the stall near the corner shop. The pavement was slick, as if the whole city had been glazed. A woman sold pastries from a van, steam curling out as she lifted the shutter. Hot, cherry-filled. He used to buy them for Claire. She’d loved cherry, used to scrunch her nose when the juice spilled. Laughed—properly. Then stopped. Stopped laughing, stopped waiting, stopped, it seemed, being with him at all.
Now she lived in Leeds. New husband, new job, new life. She called on holidays. Her voice was brittle, like dry leaves. No warmth. Always something guarded in it, as if checking he was still right where she’d left him. Or hoping, maybe, that he wasn’t.
He turned towards the park. Lived here over twenty years. The neighbourhood had changed—taller buildings, unfamiliar faces. Only the memories stayed put. There, the bench where he’d held Claire’s hand in ’98. There, the kerb where he’d sat after the call about his father’s death. All still here. Just no one else.
On a bench by the fountain—a girl. Young. Smoking. Hair tangled, eyes sharp with worry. Like she was waiting for someone but knew they wouldn’t come. A bag and a blanket beside her. Edward almost walked past, then caught her gaze. Something in it—so alone—made him pause.
“Excuse me,” she said quietly. “D’you live round here?”
“Suppose so,” he said. “You?”
“I’m waiting for someone. Said he’d meet me. Doubt he’s coming.”
Her voice was steady. Almost flat. But it shook.
“Mind if I sit for five minutes? Just… feels off, being alone right now. Weird, I know.”
“Not weird,” Edward said, sitting beside her. “Sometimes you just need someone there. Doesn’t matter who.”
They sat in silence.
She stubbed her cigarette against the bin, hands clenched between her knees.
“We broke up a year ago. He said maybe we’d talk again. Yesterday he texted, said to meet here. Ten o’clock. It’s past eleven now.”
“People rarely come when they say they will. Especially if they think they’ve said everything. Sometimes a meeting’s just a quiet goodbye.”
“Have you… ever waited for someone?” she asked.
Edward didn’t answer at once. Watched the frost on the trees, the still park.
“All my life,” he said. “First my dad. Then a woman. Then myself. Sometimes you wait without knowing who for. Hope someone’ll show up and say, ‘I know it’s hard.’ But it’s just silence. Or the wrong person.”
She didn’t ask who he meant. He didn’t explain.
They just sat. Five minutes. Ten.
Then she stood.
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For being here. Just… being here.”
She left. He stayed. Looked at the empty bench. Pulled out his phone.
“Mark.”
Pressed dial.
His son answered straight away.
“Dad? You called?”
“Yeah. I—fancy the park this Saturday? No reason. Just to talk.”
A pause.
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
Edward hung up. Stood slowly. Watched footprints sink into the snow. Breathed in. Out.
Then walked on.
Carefully.
So as not to miss what mattered.
