The Last Refuge: A Tale of a Bench and a Broken Life
The midday sun slanted lazily toward the horizon, spilling light and warmth over the dusty paths. At the edge of a tidy courtyard, fenced in by wrought iron, beneath the sprawling branches of an oak, sat Peter Wilkins. He loved this bench—the first one from the building, with a perfect view of the grounds. Here, he was privy to every whisper, every arriving car, every new face—a chronicler among abandoned lives.
He leaned back against the wooden slats, stretching his legs. The warm breeze toyed with his silver hair like a mischievous child. His eyes were half-closed, but his ears were sharp. So he caught the soft hiss of brakes as a car stopped beyond the gate.
Cracking one eye open, Peter gazed toward the street. The tinted windows of the sleek black sedan revealed nothing. A moment later, the rear door swung open, and a heavyset man in a leather jacket stepped onto the pavement. He darted to the boot, hauling out two suitcases.
“Come on, Mum, out you get. We’re here—look how lovely it is,” he said, voice dripping with forced cheer as he peered back into the car.
Behind him, shuffling with a cane, emerged an elderly woman. Small, stooped, her face taut with tension. His mother.
“Take the bags and head to reception, yeah? I’ve got places to be,” the man muttered, not even glancing at her.
“Mum, don’t dawdle. I haven’t got all day,” he snapped, slamming the boot shut.
Peter smirked faintly. “Another one, then… Another soul discarded like last season’s coat.” His chest gave its familiar pang, and his fingers instinctively sought the pill in his pocket.
Minutes later, the doors of reception slammed. The man bolted out, squeezed back into his car, and sped off without a backward glance. The black sedan vanished around the bend.
Peter closed his eyes. A memory flickered—his Emily, still alive, still whispering soft, warm words in the morning light. Always together, sharing everything, even the dream of leaving this world side by side.
But one morning, he’d woken to find her eyes wide open—and frozen.
His world crumbled. He stopped eating, stopped lighting the fire. Just lay in the cold silence until a neighbour sent word to his son.
His son arrived the next day.
“Dad, don’t take much. We’ll buy everything new. Stay with us—got a whole guest room going spare,” he urged, stuffing his father’s few belongings into a bag.
“Help me take this—the frame with Emily,” was all Peter said.
“Why d’you need it?” His son sighed but caught the look in his father’s eyes and gave in.
His daughter-in-law met them with narrowed eyes and a tight mouth.
“Oliver, honestly—I couldn’t just leave him there!” his son hissed in the kitchen.
“And where d’you expect our guests to sleep, then? Under the bloody bed?” she shot back. “A care home never crossed your mind? Who’s meant to look after him? Me? Not a chance, mate.”
Peter heard it all. He shuffled into the hallway, bracing against the doorframe:
“Son, she’s right. Get the papers sorted. I’ll sign the house over. Just don’t quarrel on my account.”
“See?” his daughter-in-law chimed in, brightening. “A sensible man. You’re just as stubborn as your grandad. Come through, Peter, we’ll sort it.”
He shook his head, as if shedding the past. Wiped his face with a handkerchief and rose slowly from the bench. His leg ached, but he moved toward the building—to see where they’d settled the new arrival.
The woman sat hunched in a chair by the farthest door. Tiny, tidy, her fingers fidgeting with a lace handkerchief—crushing it, then smoothing it out. Trying to hold herself together, though her lips trembled.
“Welcome, then,” Peter said awkwardly. “I’m Peter. And you?”
“Margaret… Williams,” she whispered.
“Here by choice, or…?” His voice was gentle, but his eyes said, *I know the truth.*
“By choice, by choice. My son’s a big man—manager at the firm. Grandson’s studying law. We’ve got everything, we’re fine,” she said, as if warding off the world.
*Aye,* Peter thought. *Dropped her like a sack of spuds. But she’ll say it’s all fine.* Only a mother’s heart could lie so bravely for her children.
“I won’t be here long… Just till they sort things. I can’t sit idle. Can’t bear to be without them, can’t…”
Tears brimmed, but she swallowed them back. Peter stood.
“It’ll be alright. Hang in there. I’ll take a stroll before bed…”
He didn’t turn back. Couldn’t.
By morning, the hallway buzzed. His roommate mentioned offhand:
“New one’s gone. Didn’t make it. Heart, they reckon.”
Peter sank back onto his bed, facing the wall. Silent.
“Rest easy, lass… Good soul. God keep you, Margaret Williams,” he murmured, crossing himself and squeezing his eyes shut.
Outside, a new day began. The sun crept timidly over the windowsills, as if ashamed to shine on a world where the abandoned now numbered one more.
