The Bench in the Courtyard Victor Stevens stepped out into the courtyard just after one. A dull ache throbbed in his temples—last night he’d finished off the remaining salads, and this morning had been spent taking down Christmas decorations and boxing up ornaments. The flat was far too quiet. He tugged on his woollen hat, tucked his phone into his pocket, and headed downstairs, holding the banister out of habit. On this January afternoon, the courtyard looked almost staged: footpaths cleared, untouched snowdrifts, not a soul in sight. Victor brushed off the bench by the second entrance; the snow slipped softly from the wooden slats. It was a perfect spot for thinking, especially when it was empty—five minutes of peace before heading back home. “Mind if I join you?” came a man’s voice. Victor turned his head. Tall fellow in a navy jacket, mid-fifties. His face looked vaguely familiar. “Plenty of room—take a seat,” Victor replied, shuffling over. “Which flat are you in?” “Forty-three, second floor. Just moved in three weeks ago. I’m Michael.” “Victor Stevens,” he said automatically, shaking the outstretched hand. “Welcome to our quiet corner.” Michael pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Do you mind?” “Go ahead, smoke away.” Victor hadn’t smoked in over a decade, but the scent of tobacco unexpectedly brought to mind his years in the local paper’s newsroom. He caught himself wanting to inhale and quickly pushed the urge aside. “Have you lived here long?” Michael asked. “Since ‘87. This whole block was just built back then.” “I used to work nearby at the Community Arts Centre. Sound engineer by trade.” Victor sat up, surprised. “With Valery Harper, right?” “That’s him! How did you—?” “Did a feature on him once. Back in ’89, for the big anniversary concert. Remember when ‘August’ played?” “I could tell you all about that show!” Michael laughed. “They brought in this monster of a speaker and the power supply kept sparking…” The conversation flowed on easily. Names came up, stories surfaced—some funny, some sad. Victor found himself thinking he ought to head home, but every topic led to another tangent: musicians, gear, backstage secrets. He hadn’t had a long chat like this in ages. Towards the end in the newsroom, he only wrote urgent articles, and since retiring he’d nearly become a hermit. He convinced himself solitude was easier—no attachments, no dependencies. But now it felt like something inside was melting. “You know,” Michael stubbed out his third cigarette, “I have the whole archive at home. Posters, photographs. Concert tapes—recorded them myself. If you’d be interested…” Why bother, Victor thought. He’d have to visit, make conversation. What if Michael wanted to be mates—they’d upend his usual routine. And what would he see that was new, anyway? “I wouldn’t mind a look,” he replied. “When’s good?” “Tomorrow, say fiveish? I’ll be back from work then.” “Alright,” Victor took out his phone, pulled up contacts. “Take my number. If anything changes, give me a ring.” That evening, he couldn’t sleep. The conversation replayed in his mind; old stories resurfaced. More than once, he picked up the phone—almost called to cancel, made up an excuse. But he didn’t. The next morning, he woke to a call. The screen read: “Michael, neighbour.” “Still up for it?” Michael’s voice was a bit hesitant. “I am,” Victor replied. “I’ll see you at five.”

Bench in the Courtyard

Victor Stephens stepped out into the courtyard just after one. A dull ache pulsed in his templesyesterday he’d finished off the last of the holiday leftovers, and that morning he’d taken down the Christmas tree and packed away the baubles. The house felt too quiet. He pulled his woolly hat over his ears, slipped his phone into his pocket, and walked downstairs, steadying himself on the banister out of habit.

On this January afternoon, the courtyard looked like something from a set: carefully shovelled paths, untouched drifts of snow, not a soul in sight. Victor brushed the bench by the second entrance free of snow. The white powder fell softly from the slats. This was his favourite spot for thinking, especially when it was emptyhe could sit for five minutes or so, recharge, then head back to his flat.

Mind if I join you? a mans voice called out.

Victor turned his head. A tall figure, about fifty-five, in a navy parka. His face seemed vaguely familiar.

Please, theres plenty of room, Victor replied, shifting along. Which flat are you from?

Flat forty-three, second floor. Moved in about three weeks ago. Michael.

Victor Stephens, he replied, shaking the offered hand without thinking. Welcome to our quiet corner.

Michael pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

Do you mind?

Not at all, go ahead.

Victor hadnt smoked for the better part of ten years, but the scent drifted over and unexpectedly reminded him of the newsroom hed spent most of his life in. He caught himself wanting to breathe it in, then hurriedly shook off the urge.

Have you lived here long? Michael asked.

Since 87. The whole estate was new back then.

I used to work nearby, Michael said, at the Mechanics Community Hall. Sound engineer.

Victor blinked in surprise.

With Valery Zachary, was it?

Thats right! But how do you know?

I wrote a piece about him ages ago. 89, I think, anniversary concert. Remember when August played?

I could recite that whole concert from memory! Michael grinned. Wed dragged in this huge speaker, the power supply kept sparking

After that, conversation flowed with ease. Names and stories surfaced, some amusing, some tinged with regret. Victor found himself glancing at the time, meaning to head home, but every minute brought another twistmusicians, gear, backstage secrets.

He no longer had long chats like this. The last years in the newsroom had been all about urgent articles, and after retiring, hed grown more and more reserved. Hed convinced himself solitude brought peaceno attachments, nothing to depend on. But now, he felt something warm begin to thaw inside.

You know Michael stubbed out his third cigarette, I still have all my old archives at home. Posters, photographs. And tapes from the concerts, ones I recorded myself. In case youre interested

Do I need this? flashed through Victors mind. Then Ill have to come round, make conversation. What if he wants to become friends? Thatll upend my daily routine. And what could there be thats truly new to see?

Wouldnt mind a look, Victor said instead. When suits you?

How about tomorrow? Around five? Ill be back from work.

All right, Victor took out his phone and opened his contacts. Let me give you my number. If anything comes up, give me a ring.

That evening, Victor struggled to fall asleep. He replayed their conversation, remembered little details from old times. More than once he reached for his phone, tempted to call and cancel, to make up an excuse. Each time, he put it back.

In the morning, his phone rang. The screen lit up: Michael, neighbour.

Change your mind? Michaels voice was a little uncertain.

No, Victor said, Ill be there at five.

Sometimes, the smallest stepslike saying yeslead us out of the quiet loneliness we thought we had chosen. And thats when new chapters begin.