**The Last Refuge: A Bench and a Broken Life**
The midday sun dipped gently toward the horizon, casting its golden light over the neatly trimmed paths. At the edge of a tidy courtyard, fenced in by tall iron railings, beneath the broad canopy of an oak tree, sat Arthur Whitmore. This bench was his favourite—the first one from the building, offering a clear view of the entire grounds. Here, he witnessed every movement, every arriving car, every new face—like a silent chronicler of forgotten lives.
He leaned back, stretching out his legs. A warm breeze tousled his greying hair like a mischievous child. His eyes were closed, but his hearing was sharp. The quiet hiss of brakes behind the gate made him stir.
Peeling one eye open, Arthur glanced toward the road. A sleek black sedan with tinted windows had pulled up. Moments later, the rear door swung open, and out stepped a burly man in a leather jacket, his face slick with sweat. He yanked two suitcases from the boot.
“Come on, Mum, we’re here. Look how nice it is,” he said with forced cheer, peering back into the car.
Behind him, an elderly woman shuffled out, leaning heavily on a walking stick. Small, hunched, her face tight with tension. His mother.
“Just take the bags inside. I’ve got to dash,” the man muttered, barely glancing at her.
“Hurry up, Mum. I haven’t got all day,” he snapped, slamming the boot shut.
Arthur’s lips curled in a quiet smirk. *Another one left behind, discarded like an old coat.* His heart gave its familiar pang, and his fingers instinctively brushed the pill bottle in his pocket.
A few minutes later, the glass doors of the reception clicked shut. The man bolted back to his car and sped off without a backward glance. The engine’s growl faded around the corner.
Arthur closed his eyes. A memory flickered—Elizabeth, his Lizzie, still alive, still whispering sweet nothings in the mornings. They’d done everything together, shared every burden. Even dreamed, foolishly, of dying on the same day.
But then, one morning, he’d woken to find her eyes open—and frozen.
His world shattered. He stopped eating, stopped lighting the fire. Just lay there in the cold silence until the neighbour called his son.
His son arrived the next day.
“Dad, don’t pack much. We’ll buy whatever you need. You’ll stay with us—the guest room’s empty,” he pleaded, stuffing clothes into a bag.
“Just help me take Elizabeth’s picture down,” was all Arthur said.
“Why d’you need it?” His son sighed but, catching the look in his father’s eye, reluctantly obliged.
His daughter-in-law greeted them with pursed lips.
“Oliver, for heaven’s sake! What were you thinking?” she hissed in the kitchen.
“I couldn’t just leave him!” Oliver whispered back.
“And where are *my* guests supposed to sleep? Under the bed?” she shot back. “Didn’t it occur to you—a care home? Who’s going to look after him? Me? Not a chance.”
Arthur heard it all. He shuffled into the hallway, leaning against the doorframe.
“Son, she’s right. Get the paperwork sorted. I’ll sign the house over. Just… don’t fight. Please.”
“See?” His daughter-in-law brightened. “A sensible man. Unlike you, always so stubborn. Come through, Arthur, let’s talk properly.”
He shook his head, as if shaking off the past. Wiped his face with a handkerchief and pushed himself up from the bench. His knee ached, but he limped toward the building—to see where they’d put the new arrival.
The woman sat in a chair by the far door. Small, neat, clutching a handkerchief she kept twisting and smoothing. Trying to hold herself together, but her lips trembled.
“Well… welcome,” Arthur began awkwardly. “I’m Arthur. And you are?”
“Margaret… Dawson,” she murmured.
“Here by choice, or…?” he asked softly, but his eyes said: *I know the truth.*
“By choice, of course. My son—he’s a very important man. My grandson’s studying to be a barrister. We have everything.” She spoke as if reciting a defence.
Arthur nearly scoffed. *Dropped her off like a sack of potatoes. And yet—”everything’s fine.” Only a mother’s heart could lie like that.*
“I won’t be here long… Just till they sort things. I’ve never been idle. I can’t—I can’t be without them.”
Tears welled, but she swallowed them stubbornly. Arthur stood.
“It’ll be alright. Hang in there. I’ll… take a walk before bed.”
He didn’t look back. Couldn’t.
By morning, the corridor buzzed with hushed voices. His roommate muttered casually:
“The new one’s gone. Didn’t make it. Heart, they reckon.”
Arthur sank onto his bed, turning his face to the wall. Silent.
“Rest easy, Margaret Dawson,” he whispered, crossing himself and squeezing his eyes shut.
Outside, a new day dawned. The sunlight crept timidly over the windowsills, as if ashamed to shine on a world where yet another soul had been left behind.
