The Bench in the Courtyard Victor Stevens stepped outside just after one. His temples throbbed—he’d finished the last of the salads yesterday, and this morning he’d packed away the Christmas tree and boxed up its ornaments. The flat was far too quiet. He pulled on a wool hat, slipped his phone into his pocket, and headed downstairs, one hand on the banister as usual. On a crisp January afternoon, the courtyard felt like a stage set: swept paths, untouched snowdrifts, not a soul in sight. Victor brushed off the bench near the second entrance; snow fell away in soft chunks. It was a good place to think, especially when no one else was around—five minutes here, then home again. “Mind if I join you?” came a man’s voice. Victor turned his head. A tall chap in a navy parka, about fifty-five, his face faintly familiar. “Have a seat, there’s plenty of room,” Victor replied, shifting over. “Which flat are you in?” “Twenty-three, second floor. Just moved in three weeks ago. Michael.” “Victor Stevens.” He shook the offered hand automatically. “Welcome to our quiet little corner.” Michael took out a packet of cigarettes. “Do you mind?” “Smoke away.” Victor hadn’t smoked in a decade, but the scent of tobacco unexpectedly brought back the old newspaper office where he’d spent most of his working life. He found himself wanting to breathe in the smoke, then quickly shook off the thought. “How long have you lived here?” Michael asked. “Since ’87. The whole block was just built.” “I used to work round the corner, at the Community Hall. Sound engineer.” Victor perked up. “With Mr. Harding?” “That’s right! How do you—?” “Wrote a piece on him once. In ’89, for the anniversary concert. Remember when ‘August’ played?” “I could retell that concert moment for moment!” Michael smiled. “We dragged that huge speaker in, power was shorting…” The conversation began to flow. Names surfaced, stories—some funny, some bittersweet. Victor caught himself thinking he really ought to head home, but the stories kept coming: musicians, kit, backstage mishaps. He’d long since got out of the habit of long chats. For the last few years at the paper he’d written only at deadline, and after retirement he’d withdrawn even more. He told himself it brought peace—no ties, no dependencies. Yet now, something inside his chest felt like it was thawing. “You know,” Michael stubbed out a third cigarette, “I’ve still got the whole archive at home. Posters, photos. Even the concert tapes—I recorded them myself. If you’re interested…” Why bother? Victor thought. It would mean calling round, making small talk. What if Michael wanted to strike up a neighbourly friendship? His routine would be thrown. And what could he possibly see that was new? “Could have a look,” he said. “When’s convenient?” “Tomorrow’s fine. Five-ish? I’ll be in from work.” “Let’s do it,” Victor got out his phone and opened contacts. “Take my number. If anything changes, just call.” That evening he couldn’t sleep. He replayed their conversation, recalled old details. He reached for his phone twice to cancel, invent an excuse. But he didn’t. In the morning, the phone rang. The screen lit up: “Michael, neighbour”. “Still up for it?” Michael’s voice sounded a bit tentative. “I am,” Victor replied. “I’ll be over by five.”

The Bench in the Courtyard

Victor Thompson stepped out into the courtyard just after one. His temples throbbedlast night hed polished off the last of the leftovers, and this morning hed packed away the Christmas decorations. It was far too quiet at home. He tugged his beanie on, shoved his phone into his pocket, and made his way downstairs, habitually gripping the banister.

The January midday light turned the courtyard into a stage set: tidied footpaths, pristine mounds of snow, not a soul in sight. Victor brushed off the bench by the second entrance, watching the snow slide off the planks in soft waves. This was the place for proper thinking, especially when it was desertedfive minutes here and he always felt ready to face the empty flat again.

Mind if I join you? a mans voice piped up.

Victor turned his head. A tall chap in a navy jacket, mid-fifties, face vaguely familiar.

Plenty of room, have a seat, he replied, shuffling over. Which flat are you from?

Number forty-three, second floor. Just moved in three weeks ago. Michael, by the way.

Victor Thompson, he said, automatically shaking the outstretched hand. Welcome to our quiet little nook.

Michael produced a pack of cigarettes.

Mind if I smoke?

Go on, knock yourself out.

Victor hadnt smoked for a decade, but the scent of tobacco unexpectedly reminded him of the bustling newsroom hed worked at most of his life. He caught himself wanting to inhale the whiff, but quickly quashed the urge.

So, have you been here long? Michael asked.

Since 87. The whole block was new back then.

I used to work round here, actually. Sound technician at the Old Ironworks Community Centre.

Victor started.

With Laurence Chapman?

Spot on! Howd you know?

I wrote a feature on him back in 89. There was a big anniversary gig, remember? When August performed?

I could narrate that entire gig back to front! Michael beamed. We hauled in this massive speaker, the power supply was crackling

The conversation flowed effortlessly. Names and stories surfacedsometimes hilarious, sometimes tinged with regret. Victor realised he ought to head back, but every time, the chat took a new turn: musicians, equipment mishaps, backstage whispers.

Hed forgotten how to have a long natter. His last years at the newspaper had been all frantic deadlines, and since retirement, hed grown more withdrawn. He told himself it was easierno attachments, no expectations. Yet now, he felt something gently thawing in his chest.

You know, Michael stubbed out his third cigarette, Ive still got all my old archives at home. Posters, photos. Even tapes from the concertsI recorded them myself. If you fancy a look

Why bother, Victor thought for a moment. Then hed be expected to socialise. Next thing you know, theres neighbourly bonds, routines upended. Besides, what could he possibly learn that was new?

Wouldnt mind a peek, he said. When suits you?

Tomorrow, if you like. Around five? Ill be in from work around then.

Alright then, Victor pulled out his phone, opened Contacts. Ill give you my number. If plans change, give us a ring.

That evening, he struggled to fall asleep. The entire conversation replayed in his headdetails from old stories resurfacing. More than once, he reached for his phone, ready to cancel, to make some excuse. He didnt.

In the morning, his phone rang. On the screen: Michael, neighbour.

Still up for it? Michaels voice was a tad hesitant.

Definitely, Victor replied. See you at five.At five sharp, Victor found himself standing outside flat forty-three, heart thumping, cheeks tinged red from the cold and something elsean anticipation he hadnt felt in years. Michael opened the door, his face splitting into a wide grin. A warm waft of coffee, mingled with the woody scent of old paper and cassette cases, drifted from inside.

Michael ushered him past stacks of cardboard boxes and into a small, bright living room. Posters from gigs and theatre shows wallpapered the corners. On the coffee table, tapes, black-and-white snapshots, and faded programs sprawled in glorious disorder.

Help yourself, Michael gestured, sliding a cassette into the battered deck. The speakers crackled, and thenthe unmistakable echo of a live crowd, the hush before a song. Victor recognized the voices, the laughter bleeding through the years. He was transported: back to a time when every moment had promised something unexpected.

They pored over programs and swapped stories, each memory tugging the next into the open. Michael produced a snapshotVictor on stage, scribbling in his notepad, laughter caught mid-breath. Victor stared, surprised by how young he looked, how fierce and ready.

For hours, the world outside faded to mere background, the darkness pressing up against the windows as inside, music and recollections stitched the years together. When Victor finally stood to go, he paused in the threshold, a bittersweet lump tight in his throat.

Same time next week? Michael ventured, awkward but hopeful.

Victor grinnedbroad, genuine, unexpected even to himself. Yeah. Maybe Ill bring some of my old press badges. Swap a few stories.

They shook hands, lingering a moment longer. And as Victor walked the snowy path home, he felt the benchs chill replaced by something quietly radianta sense that, perhaps, there was still music to discover, and an audience waiting, right next door.