October 12th, 2023
Edward stood by the window of his flat in Manchester, watching schoolchildren hurry along the frosty morning street. Some wore puffy grey coats, others jeans with bare ankles despite the freezing temperature outside. The wind rattled the glass, but the kids seemed untouchable. He snorted—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 just loneliness.
His phone screen blinked with a missed call—his son. Edward knew he should ring back. If he didn’t, 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 felt like delicate negotiations, skirting the edges of something unspoken. Dry. Careful. Distant. All the important things buried under years of unsaid words. He’d even rehearsed once, but every call still boiled down to, “How’s work?”
He threw on his old overcoat, pulled on knitted mittens—warm, if a bit silly—and stepped out. The cold lashed his face like a whip. The air smelled of burnt coal and fresh bread from the stall outside the corner shop. The pavement was slick, as if the whole city had been glazed with ice. A woman sold pasties from a van on the corner, steam curling from the open hatch. The smell of fried dough took him back—he used to buy them for Emily. Hot, with cherry filling. She loved the cherries, grimacing when the juice ran. Used to laugh properly back then. Then she stopped. Stopped laughing, stopped waiting. Stopped being with him.
Now she lived in Bristol. New husband, new job, new life. Called on holidays. Her voice like dry leaves—no warmth, no tone. He always heard something guarded in it, as if she needed to be sure he was still exactly where she’d left him. Or maybe hoping he wasn’t.
He turned toward the park. He’d lived here over twenty years. The neighbourhood had shifted—taller buildings, unfamiliar doorways. New neighbours. Only the memories stayed in place. There was the bench where he’d held Emily’s hand in ’98. The kerb where he’d sat after the call about his father’s death. All still here. Just not the people.
On a bench by the fountain, a girl sat smoking. Young. Messy hair, restless eyes. Like she was waiting for someone but knew they wouldn’t come. A bag and a blanket beside her. Edward nearly walked past, then caught her gaze—so much loneliness there he stopped without thinking.
“Sorry,” she said quietly. “Are you from round here?”
“You could say that,” he answered. “You?”
“Waiting for someone. He was supposed to come. Doubt he will now.”
Her voice was steady. Almost blank. But it shook.
“Mind if I sit with you a minute? Feel a bit off. I know it’s odd.”
“Not odd,” Edward said, sitting beside her. “Sometimes you just need someone there. Doesn’t matter who.”
They sat in silence.
She stubbed out her cigarette on the bin’s edge and clasped her hands between her knees.
“We broke up a year ago. He said maybe we’d talk again. Texted yesterday, said to meet here. At ten. It’s past eleven now.”
“People rarely show when they promise. 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 took his time answering. Watched the frost on the trees, the empty park.
“All my life,” he said. “First, my father. Then a woman. Then myself. Sometimes you wait without knowing who for. Hope someone will turn 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. Then took out his phone.
“Son.”
Pressed call.
His son answered straight away. “Dad? You rang?”
“Yeah. I… was thinking. Fancy the park this Saturday? No reason. Just talk.”
A pause.
“Yeah,” his son said. “I’d like that.”
Edward hung up. Slowly stood. Watched footprints press into the snow. Breathed in. Out.
And walked.
Carefully.
So as not to miss what mattered.
Sometimes the smallest step is the one you’ve been putting off the longest.
