Every morning at precisely 7:45, Albert stepped out of his worn-down council flat in the outskirts of Manchester. Not because he had anywhere to be—retired, long past work, his children grown and moved away. It was simply habit, the creak of the stairwell door, the crunch of gravel underfoot, the chill that clung to his coat even in spring.
He passed the newsagent where the clerks no longer offered him coffee—they knew Albert always carried his thermos. He gave them a polite nod, as if to say, *All’s well. Everything as it should be.* The courtyard, the benches, the chemist, the post office steps—they all knew his gait. Even the stray dogs didn’t bark anymore. They knew he belonged.
His path never varied, ending at the last wooden bench beneath an old oak. It sagged slightly, its surface smooth with age, one slat cracked in the middle. Years ago, Albert himself had bolted it down—back when he worked for the council, fixing signs, patching roofs, changing bulbs, laughing with the lads over lunch. Back then, it felt like the neighbourhood stood because of men like him. The bench and its rusted bolts still held—weathered but stubbornly alive.
He settled in, poured strong black tea into his cup-lid, unfolded the newspaper across his lap—not to read, just to hold something steady. He watched people pass: schoolchildren, office workers, errand-runners. Coats changed, shoes changed, faces changed, but Albert remained. An anchor in the crossroads of time.
Sometimes, someone joined him—an elderly woman from the next block, a perpetually late schoolboy, a lad with a dog, a woman with her own thermos, a teenager with earbuds. They stayed a few minutes, then left. Albert stayed. As if he were part of the bench itself—its voice, its breath.
One day, a woman in her forties approached. Wearing a trench coat, a camera around her neck. She hesitated, then stepped closer.
“Excuse me… could I take your photo?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Me? You sure you’ve got the right bloke?”
“Yes. I’m working on a project. About people who stayed. Who didn’t leave. You… you’re like part of the city. Looking at you, you feel like not everything’s vanished. Like someone’s still *here*. Someone real.”
He chuckled, set the paper aside.
“Go on, then. But put in the caption I’m not asleep. Don’t want folks thinking I’m some old duffer napping in the park.”
“I’ll write that you’re a guardian of time,” she smiled.
“Just don’t make it gloomy. Plenty of light. Nothing sad.”
A week later, his photo appeared in the local paper. Hundreds of comments: *I see him every morning too*, *He’s like part of the pavement*, *The courtyard’s not the same without him*. Albert read them, smiling quietly. And still, he sat. Drank his tea, held his paper. Sometimes caught in a passerby’s eyes that same look—attentive, grateful.
Come spring, workmen arrived to replace the bench. A sleek, grey, metal thing. Cold. New. No scent of wood, no marks from decades. One of the men glanced at Albert.
“Gutted?”
Albert nodded—but not at the bench. At the shadow it used to cast.
“Gutted. But not just me.”
He didn’t interfere. That evening, when the streets quieted, he returned. Brought a tin of brown paint and a brush. Sat, silently painted a thin crack—right where the old one had been. A memory. A mark.
Then he sat, poured tea, unfolded the paper. And the new bench gave a faint creak. As if it recognised him.
From then on, he sat again. In the same spot. In the same time. Only the bench was different. But the tea—the same: strong, with a faint metallic tang. The paper—the same. The people—the same too, just a little older. They passed, they nodded. Some stopped, some said *mornin’*. Once, a little boy walking with his mum pointed:
“Mum, it’s that man. From the photo. He’s actually real!”
Sometimes, to stay—you don’t need to go anywhere. Don’t need to speak loudly. You just need to *be*. In one place. For a long time. With your whole self. So that one day, someone pausing for just a second might think: *It’s good he’s here.* And smile—very, very softly.
