Every morning at precisely 7:45, Albert stepped out of his weathered terraced house in a quiet corner of Manchester. Not because he had anywhere to be—retirement had claimed his days, his children long grown and moved away. His body simply knew the rhythm: the creak of the front door, the crunch of gravel underfoot, the chill that clung to his coat even in early spring.
He passed the newsagent where the clerk no longer bothered offering him coffee—Albert always carried his thermos. A polite nod sufficed, as if to say, *All’s well. Just as it always is.* The park, the benches, the chemist, the post office steps—they all knew his gait. Even the stray dogs had stopped barking. They recognised one of their own.
His route never wavered, ending at the last wooden bench beneath an old oak. It slumped slightly, its surface worn smooth by time, a single cracked slat in the middle. Decades ago, Albert himself had bolted it into place—back when he worked for the council, fixing signs, patching roofs, swapping bulbs, sharing jokes with the lads at lunch. Back then, he’d imagined the neighbourhood held together by men like him. The bench, the rusted bolts—they still stood. Weathered, stubbornly alive.
He’d sit, pour strong black tea into the thermos lid, unfold the newspaper across his knees—not to read, just to hold. Something steady. He watched the world pass by: schoolchildren, commuters, busy souls with errands. Coats changed, faces changed, but Albert remained. An anchor in the tide of time.
Sometimes, someone joined him—an elderly neighbour, a harried student, a bloke with a border collie, a woman with her own thermos, a teen lost in music. They’d linger a few minutes, then leave. Albert stayed. As much a part of the bench as the wood itself—its voice, its breath.
One morning, a woman in her forties approached. A camera around her neck, a hesitant step.
“Excuse me,” she said. “Might I take your photo?”
Albert raised a brow.
“Me? You sure you’ve got the right chap?”
“Yes. I’m working on a project—about people who stay. You… you feel like part of the city. Like proof some things don’t vanish.”
He chuckled, set the paper aside.
“Go on, then. But label it ‘Wide Awake.’ Don’t want folks thinking I’m napping like some old war vet on a park bench.”
“I’ll say you’re a keeper of time,” she smiled.
“Just make it sunny. Not sad.”
A week later, his face appeared in the local paper. Hundreds chimed in: *”I see him every morning,” “He’s as much the street as the pavement,” “The park’s not the same without him.”* Albert read them, smiled quietly. And still, he sat. Drank his tea, held his paper. Sometimes caught the glance of a passerby—that look of quiet recognition.
Then came the council workers, replacing the bench with a sleek, grey metal one. No grain, no history. One labourer caught Albert staring.
“Sorry, mate. Hate to see it go?”
Albert nodded—not at the bench, but at the shadow it once cast.
“Aye. But not just me.”
He didn’t interfere. But that evening, when the street fell silent, he returned. A tin of brown paint, a small brush. He sat, carefully traced a hairline crack—right where the old slat had split. A memory. A mark.
Then he sat, poured his tea, laid out the paper. The new bench gave a faint creak. As if welcoming him.
So he stayed. Same spot, same time. Different bench. Same tea—strong, faintly metallic. Same paper. Same faces, just older. Nods, *”Mornin’s.”* Once, a boy tugged his mother’s sleeve:
“Mum—that’s the man from the photo! He’s real!”
Sometimes, to remain, you needn’t go anywhere. Needn’t shout. Just be. In one place. For a long while. With your whole self. So one day, someone might pause and think, *”Glad he’s here.”* And smile—softly, to themselves.
Lesson learned: Steadfastness wears no medals. But it leaves its mark.
