**November 15th**
William stood by the window of his flat in Manchester, watching schoolchildren hurry along the frosty pavement. Some bundled up in grey coats, others defiant in jeans with exposed ankles despite the biting cold. The wind rattled the panes, but the kids seemed untouched by it. He snorted—almost envious. Took a sip of coffee. Bitter. Too late to fix it now, and the kitchen felt too far away anyway. His fingers trembled slightly. Age. Blood pressure. Or loneliness.
His phone screen flickered—a missed call from Matthew. He knew he ought to ring back. If not now, he’d hear it later: *“You’re always too busy.”* But he wasn’t busy. He just never knew what to say. His son was thirty-one, a grown man. Their conversations had turned into cautious negotiations, dry and distant, as if navigating a silent minefield. Every meaningful thing had long been buried under years of unspoken words. He’d even rehearsed possible topics beforehand, yet it always circled back to the same dull, *“How’s work?”*
He pulled on his old overcoat, tugged on knitted gloves—warm, if a bit ridiculous—and stepped outside. The cold lashed his face like a whip. The air smelled of coal smoke and fresh bread from the stall near the corner shop. The pavement was slick, as if the entire city had been glazed with ice. A woman sold pastries from a van, steam and the scent of fried dough wafting through the cracked door. He remembered buying similar ones for Emily—hot, cherry-filled. She’d wince when the juice ran out but laugh properly, freely. Then she stopped. Laughing. Waiting. Being with him.
Now she lived in London. New husband, new job, new life. She called on holidays. Her voice like brittle paper, no warmth left in it. He always heard something guarded in her tone, as if checking 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 changed—taller buildings, unfamiliar doorways, new neighbours. Only the memories stayed put. There, the bench where he’d held Emily’s hand in ’98. There, the kerb where he’d sat after the call about his father’s death. All of it still here. Just not the people.
On a bench by the fountain sat a girl. Young. Smoking. Hair tousled, eyes restless. As if waiting for someone she wasn’t sure would come. A bag and a blanket beside her. William nearly walked past, but then he caught her gaze—and in it, so much loneliness that he stopped.
“Sorry,” she said quietly. “Do you live round here?”
“You could say that,” he replied. “And you?”
“I’m waiting for someone. He was supposed to come. Guess he won’t.” Her voice was steady. Almost empty. But it wavered.
“Mind if I sit a few minutes? Feels odd being alone just now.”
“Not odd,” William said, settling beside her. “Sometimes you just need someone there. Doesn’t matter who.”
They sat in silence.
She stubbed out her cigarette against the edge of the bin, clasping her hands between her knees.
“We split up a year ago. He said maybe we’d talk again. Yesterday, he texted, said to meet here. At ten. It’s past eleven now.”
“People rarely show when they say they will. Especially if they think they’ve said everything. Sometimes a meeting’s just a quiet goodbye.”
“Have you… ever waited for someone like that?” she asked.
William didn’t answer at once. Watched the frost clinging to bare branches, the still park.
“My whole life,” he said. “First, my father. Then a woman. Then myself. Sometimes you wait without knowing who for. Hope someone’ll turn up and say, *‘I know it’s hard.’* But it’s just silence. Or someone else entirely.”
She didn’t ask whom he meant. He didn’t explain.
They just sat. Five minutes. Ten.
Then she stood.
“Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For being here. Just that.”
She left. He stayed. Glanced at the empty bench. Then took out his phone.
*Matthew.*
He pressed call.
His son answered at once.
“Dad? You rang?”
“Yeah. I—fancy the park this Saturday? Just to sit. Talk.”
A pause.
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
William hung up. Rose slowly. Watched footsteps press into the snow. Breathed in. Out.
Then walked on.
Carefully.
So he wouldn’t miss what mattered.
