Every morning at precisely 7:45, Albert stepped out of his weathered terraced house in the quiet streets of Liverpool. Not because he had anywhere to be—retirement had long since claimed his days, his children grown and gone. It was just habit now: the creak of the front gate, the crunch of gravel underfoot, the lingering chill that clung to his coat even in spring.
He passed the corner shop where the clerks no longer offered him coffee—they knew Albert always carried his thermos. He nodded politely, as if to say, *All’s well. Nothing’s changed.* The park benches, the chemist, the post office steps—they all recognized his measured stride. Even the stray dogs had stopped barking. They knew him now.
His feet carried him to the last wooden bench beneath the old oak. It was worn, the wood smoothed by time, one plank in the middle slightly splintered. Years ago, when he still worked for the council, he’d helped bolt it down—fixing signs, patching roofs, swapping bulbs, sharing jokes with the lads over lunch. Back then, it felt like the city stood firm because of men like him. The bench, the rusted bolts holding it together—they were still here, stubbornly enduring.
He sat, poured strong black tea into the thermos lid, spread a newspaper across his lap—unread, just a familiar weight. He watched the world pass: schoolchildren, office workers, busybodies with errands. Coats changed, shoes wore out, faces came and went. He remained. An anchor in the tide of time.
Sometimes, someone joined him—an elderly neighbour, a tardy schoolboy, a man with a Labrador, a young woman clutching her own thermos, a teenager lost in music. They stayed a few minutes, then moved on. Albert stayed. As though he’d become part of the bench—its shadow, its breath, its voice.
One day, a woman in her forties approached. A camera hung around her neck. She hesitated, then stepped closer.
“Excuse me… might I take your photograph?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Me? You sure you’ve got the right bloke?”
“Yes. I’m working on a project. About people who stayed. People like you—who feel like part of the place. When I look at you, it’s like… like not everything’s vanished. Like something real still stands.”
He chuckled, folded the paper away.
“Go on, then. Only don’t make me look half-asleep. Don’t want folks thinking I’m some old codger napping in the park.”
“I’ll write that you’re the keeper of time,” she smiled.
“Just make sure there’s some light in it. None of that drab business.”
A week later, his face appeared in the local paper. Hundreds commented: *I see him every morning. He’s like part of the pavement. The street’s not the same without him.* Albert read them, smiled quietly. And still, he sat—sipping tea, holding his paper. Sometimes, he caught it in a passerby’s glance—that look. Noticing. Grateful.
Then spring brought workmen to replace the bench. Sleek, grey, metal. Cold. New. No scent of wood, no marks of years. One labourer glanced at Albert.
“Sorry to see it go?”
Albert nodded—not at the bench, but at the shade it once cast.
“Aye. But not just me.”
He didn’t interfere. But that evening, when the street fell quiet, he returned. A tin of brown paint in hand, a thin brush. He sat, silently tracing a hairline crack—exactly where the old one had been. Like a memory. A quiet protest.
Then he sat, poured his tea, laid out the paper. And the new bench let out a soft creak. As if it understood.
So he stayed. Same spot. Same time. Different bench. Same bitter tea, faintly metallic. Same newspaper. Same faces, just a little older. Some nodded. Some murmured, *Morning.* Once, a little boy, tugging his mother’s sleeve, whispered,
“Mum—that’s the man. From the photo. He’s really here!”
Sometimes, to remain, you don’t need to go anywhere. You don’t need to shout. You just have to *be.* In one place. For a long, long time. With your whole self. So that one day, someone might pause—just for a second—and think, *Good. He’s still here.* And smile. Softly. To themselves.
