It was the spring of 1992 in a quiet English town, many years ago. Each morning, a man would sit on a wooden bench by the railway station. He didnt beg, nor did he engage in idle gossip. He merely sat, his threadbare satchel resting at his feet, his eyes distant, watching the tracks stretch away into the horizon.
His name was Albert. Before the turbulent days of the late 80s, he had been a locomotive engineer, proudly working the rails for British Rail. But after the industry changed, the station grew quiet, trains became scarce, and men like him found themselves set adrift. At fifty-four, Albert carried a heavy silence, the sort born from too many things left unsaid.
Every morning at eight, he would arrive at the stationjust as he used to when his shift would begin. He stayed until midday, then drifted away as quietly as hed come. The locals all recognised him in passing. Theres the old railway man, theyd murmur, but no one troubled him with questions.
One day, a lad of about nineteen slumped down onto the bench beside him. The boy clutched a battered rucksack and a crumpled sheet of paper in one hand, glancing frequently at his watch and shivering, out of nerves or hungerwho could tell?
Is there a train to Manchester anytime soon? he asked, not meeting Alberts eye.
A quarter to four, Albert replied, his voice a low rumble, the answer almost reflexive.
The boy sighed, explaining that hed been accepted into university but hadnt enough money for a ticket. Hed gathered what he could from his village, but it hadnt sufficed. He dreaded returning home; I promised them Id make something of myself, he murmured, mostly to himself.
Albert said nothing, but soon stood, picked up his satchel, and walked away. The boys shoulders slumped furtherhed expected nothing and, it seemed, would get nothing.
Yet, ten minutes later, Albert returned. He placed something on the bench next to the boyhis old British Rail ID and a few crisp ten-pound notes.
Ive no use for these now, he said. Ive gone as far as I can. Youre just setting off.
The boy began to refuse, stammering it wasnt right to accept, but Albert silenced him with a swift motion.
If you make something of yourself, help another sometime. Thats all.
The train came and whisked the boy away. Albert went back to the bench the next day, as always, but somehow, he didnt linger quite so long.
Months slipped by. One morning, someone joined him again on the bench. It was the same lad, thinner and paler, but with a smile bright as a spring dawn.
I passed my first year, he said, and found a job. I wanted to return what you gave me.
Albert shook his head and smileda smile no one had seen for years.
Keep it, he said softly. Dont let the chain break.
Years rolled on. Albert stopped coming to the station. Time, as it does, marched forward.
A decade later, the boynow a grown man with steady work and a family just begunreturned to his hometown for a brief visit, drawn more by nostalgia than duty. The station hadnt changed; the benches and the bricks were much the same, though everything else had shifted imperceptibly.
On a whim, he asked after the man who once sat, day after day, on that bench.
Albert? a passerby said. He had an accident, two years back. A motorcar, it was. Lost a leg. His wife looks after him now.
The news clenched his heart. He asked no further questions, but found the address and went straightaway.
Alberts world had shrunk to a small upstairs room in an old brick terrace. His bed was set by the window. Alberts wifea quiet woman, remembered from distant station morningssmiled at the visitor and quietly left them alone.
Youve come back, Albert said, recognising him at once. Youre making a man of yourself.
The old man was frail, hair gone entirely snowy, but his eyes remained just as clear, just as calm.
They spoke for hours about trains, about life, about the little nothings that string days together. At one point, Albert shrugged and chuckled.
After all those years among engines, whod have thought itd be a little motorcar put me to bed? Such is a mans luck.
He laugheda brief, genuine sound, as if even misfortune couldnt defeat him.
The young man left, throat tight and mind resolved. He made inquiries, talked to people, all in secret.
His next visit, he quietly wheeled in a brand new wheelchair, tucking an envelope of money into the pocket at the back.
Whats all this, then? Albert asked, eyes wide with surprise.
You helped me on my way to university, the man replied. Now I help you find your way again Its all I can do.
Albert raised his hands, perhaps to protest, but the man simply shook his head.
To keep the chain unbrokendont you remember what you once told me? Its my turn now.
Albert said nothing, only nodded and gripped the young mans hand with all the strength he had.
So much is lost in this worldpeople, trains, years themselves. But sometimes, an act of kindness finds its way backnot as a debt, but as a thread stretching on, unbroken. As long as kindnesss chain remains, what we give passes forwardperhaps not to us, but to those who need it most.
If youve lived or witnessed such a momentone that kept the chain intactshare it onward. We need these stories to draw us close. Sometimes, a simple word, a memory, a shared hope is enough to keep the chain alive.
