Every morning at precisely 7:45, Albert stepped out of his weathered postwar flat in the outskirts of Norwich. Not because he had anywhere to be—retired long ago, his children grown and moved away—but because his body remembered. The creak of the stairwell door, the crunch of gravel underfoot, the lingering chill that clung to his coat even in spring—this was his ritual.
He walked past the corner shop where the clerks no longer offered him coffee; they knew Albert always carried his thermos. He’d nod politely, as if to say, *All’s well. Everything as it should be.* The park benches, the chemist, the post office steps—they all knew his stride. Even the stray dogs didn’t bark anymore. They knew he belonged.
His route never strayed from the last wooden bench beneath the old oak. It leaned slightly, its surface worn smooth by time, a split running through its middle. Decades ago, Albert had bolted it down himself—back when he worked for the council, fixing lamps, patching roofs, laughing with the lads over packed lunches. It felt then like the whole neighbourhood rested on men like him. The bench, the rusted screws, even the tree—all still standing, weathered but stubbornly alive.
He’d sit, pour strong tea into the thermos lid, and unfold the newspaper across his knees. He never read it, just held it—something steady. He watched the morning parade: schoolchildren, commuters, busybodies darting past. Jackets, shoes, faces changed. Albert stayed. An anchor in the tide of time.
Sometimes, someone joined him—an elderly neighbour, a harried student, a bloke with a spaniel, a young woman with her own thermos. They’d sit a while, then leave. Albert remained. As much a part of the bench as its grain.
One morning, a woman in her forties approached. A camera hung around her neck.
“Excuse me,” she said, hesitating. “Might I take your photo?”
Albert raised an eyebrow. “Me? You sure?”
“Yes. It’s for a series—about people who stay. You’re… part of this place. Like proof it hasn’t all vanished.”
He chuckled, set the paper aside. “Snap away, then. But write ‘Not asleep’ beneath it. Don’t want folks mistaking me for some old codger napping in the park.”
“I’ll say you’re the keeper of time,” she replied with a grin.
“Just keep it light, eh? No gloom.”
The photo appeared in the local paper days later. Comments poured in: *I see him every morning. Without him, the park wouldn’t feel right.* Albert read them, smiling quietly. Still, he sat. Drank his tea. Held his paper. Sometimes, he’d catch a passerby’s glance—grateful, lingering.
Then, come spring, workers arrived to replace the bench. Sleek, metal, impersonal. One of them caught Albert’s eye.
“Sad to see it go?”
Albert nodded—but not at the bench. At its shadow.
“A shame. Not just for me.”
That evening, when the square was empty, he returned. With a tin of brown paint and a brush, he traced a hairline crack exactly where the old one had been. A memory. A mark. Then he sat, poured his tea, and the new bench let out a faint creak—as if recognising him.
From then on, he sat as always. Same spot. Same time. Only the bench had changed. The tea was the same—brisk, with a faint metallic tang. The paper, too. And the people, only a little older now, nodded as they passed. Once, a boy whispered to his mum, “That’s the man from the photo! He’s real!”
Sometimes, to endure, you needn’t go far. No grand speeches, just stillness. To be there, long enough, with all your heart—until one day, a stranger pauses, thinks, *Good, he’s still here,* and smiles softly to themselves.
