**The Final Resting Place: A Bench and a Broken Life**
The midday sun dipped slowly toward the horizon, spilling warmth over the dusty paths of the courtyard. At the far edge, fenced in by tall iron railings, beneath the sprawling branches of an old oak, sat Albert Whitmore. He adored this bench—the first one from the building, with a clear view of every arrival. Here, he was the silent chronicler of forgotten lives.
He leaned back, stretching his legs out. The breeze tousled his grey hair like a mischievous child. His eyes were closed, but his ears were sharp. Just beyond the gates, he heard the smooth hiss of a car pulling to a stop.
Cracking an eye open, Albert glanced toward the road. The tinted windows of the sleek Jaguar hid its passengers, but a moment later, the back door swung open. A heavyset man in a leather jacket stepped out, his polished shoes clicking against the pavement. He hurried to the boot, yanking out two suitcases.
“Come on, Mum, we’re here. Look how lovely it is,” he said with forced cheer, peering back into the car.
Behind him, shuffling with a walking stick, emerged a frail woman. Small, bent, her face lined with quiet strain. His mother.
“Take the bags and head inside. I’ve got somewhere to be,” he muttered, not even sparing her a glance.
“Mum, don’t dawdle. I’m on the clock,” he snapped, slamming the boot shut.
Albert’s lip curled in a bitter smile. *Another one cast aside, like rubbish.* His chest tightened, and he reached instinctively for the pill in his pocket.
Minutes later, the reception doors banged open. The man stormed out, slid into his car, and sped off without a backward glance. The Jaguar vanished around the bend.
Albert closed his eyes. A memory flickered—Margaret, his Maggie, alive, whispering soft words in the morning. Together always, sharing everything. They’d even dreamed of dying together, hand in hand.
But one morning, he woke to find her eyes open—and empty.
The world collapsed. He stopped eating, stopped lighting the fire, just lay in the cold silence until a neighbour called his son.
His son arrived the next day.
“Dad, don’t bring much. We’ll get whatever you need. You’ll stay in the guest room—plenty of space,” he urged, stuffing Albert’s few belongings into a bag.
“Fetch Maggie’s photograph,” Albert said quietly.
“Why?” His son sighed, but under his father’s gaze, he obeyed.
His daughter-in-law met them with pinched lips.
“Tom, be reasonable! I can’t have guests sleeping under the bed!” she hissed in the kitchen. “A care home never crossed your mind? Who’s going to look after him? Me? Not a chance.”
Albert heard it all. He stepped into the hallway, leaning against the doorframe.
“She’s right, son. Sort the paperwork. I’ll sign the house over. Just don’t fight.”
“See?” His daughter-in-law brightened. “Someone sensible. You’re as stubborn as your grandfather. Come, Albert, we’ll sort it.”
He shook his head, as if scattering the past. Wiping his face with a handkerchief, he hauled 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 stiffly in an armchair by the furthest door. Small, neat, twisting a handkerchief between her fingers, smoothing it out again. Her lips trembled, though she fought to steady them.
“Welcome,” Albert said awkwardly. “I’m Albert Whitmore. And you?”
“Ethel… Ethel Morris,” she whispered.
“Here by choice?” he asked softly, but his eyes said, *I already know.*
“My own doing. My son’s a busy man—head of a firm. Grandson’s studying law. We want for nothing.” Her words rang hollow, a defence against the truth.
*Dropped her like a sack,* Albert thought. *And yet she says “we.” A mother’s lie to shield them.*
“I won’t be here long. Just resting. They’ll fetch me soon. I’m not used to sitting idle.”
Tears welled, but she swallowed them. Albert stood.
“It’ll be alright. Hold on. I’ll take a walk before bed.”
He didn’t look back. He couldn’t.
Morning brought hushed chaos. His roommate shrugged.
“The new one’s gone. Just like that. Heart, they reckon.”
Albert sank onto his bed, turning to the wall. Silent.
“Rest easy, Ethel Morris,” he murmured, crossing himself, eyes squeezed shut.
Outside, the sun crept over the windowsill, hesitant, as if ashamed to light a world where another soul had been left behind.
