The Last Bench
Every morning, Victor left the house at exactly 7:30. Not because he was in a hurry—he hadn’t had work in years. It was just habit: the morning light, the creak of the gate, the chill on the doorstep. The streets knew his footsteps; stray dogs didn’t bark, and the corner shopkeepers didn’t offer him tea—they knew he carried his own flask. He’d nod slightly in return, as if to say everything was in its place, moving as it should.
He walked through the square, past the old post office and the abandoned bus stop, always pausing at the worn bench on the corner. He’d sit, pour his tea, unfold the newspaper across his lap. He never read it—just held it, part of the ritual. He watched the street. The people. The city racing past, never noticing him. He saw faces change, strangers’ children grow, everything speeding up, leaving him behind. Yet he remained—not a monument, but something unmovable, like the old oak in the village green.
The bench was ancient. Cracked paint, peeling edges, a wobbly back that might give in to the next strong wind. It had been put there when Victor still worked for the council—fixing locks, hauling pipes, joking with mates over lunch. He’d tightened the bolts himself, anchoring it to the ground like roots. Now it stood forgotten by all but him. The bolts rusted but held—like memories that refuse to fade.
Sometimes others sat beside him. An old woman with her shopping bag, a schoolboy with a pasty, a man with a shaggy dog. They’d glance at phones, at watches, then move on. Victor stayed. As if he *was* the bench—its shadow, its heart, its stubborn breath.
One morning, a woman in her thirties approached, a camera in hand. She hesitated, then smiled—an awkward smile.
“Mind if I take your picture?” she asked, fiddling with the strap.
Victor looked up, squinting against the sun.
“Me? Why?” His voice was rough but not unkind.
“It’s for a project. I photograph the ones who stay. Not those who run, but those who *hold* a place. You… you’re like a root here. Impossible to miss.”
He smirked, adjusted his frayed jacket, glanced at the paper.
“Fine. But tell them I’m thinking, not sleeping. Don’t need folks thinking I’ve dozed off.”
“I’ll say you’re the keeper of time,” she said, eyes bright.
“Then take it with the sun. Makes it less dreary.”
A week later, his photo appeared online. The post gathered hundreds of replies. “That’s the bloke by the bench,” they wrote. “He’s always there.” “Like part of the street.” And Victor kept sitting. Drinking his tea. Watching passersby. Sometimes he’d meet their glances with a faint smile, as if recognizing those who’d recognized him first.
Come spring, the council replaced the bench. A workman arrived with a new one—gleaming metal, smooth rails, a plasticky back. It looked alien, too perfect, like a visitor from another world. Victor eyed it, stood, stepped away. He took one step, then another, as if leaving for good—but stopped.
“Not sad to see it go?” the workman asked, tools clinking.
“The bench? A bit,” Victor said, staring not at him but at where the old wood’s shadow used to fall. “But it wasn’t just mine.”
He didn’t argue. He left. But that evening, when the square emptied, he returned. With a paint tin and brush. On the new bench, where the old one had split, he traced a thin line—barely visible, like a scar. Then he sat, poured tea, unfolded the paper. And for a second, even the metal seemed to creak in recognition.
After that, he came back. Same time, same place—like a clock hand completing its circle. He drank his strong, bitter tea, sharp with tannins. Watched the street, the people rushing past, unaware that memory could be a bench. Strangers nodded, recognizing him now. A few even paused to say, “Alright?”
One day, a boy tugged his mother’s sleeve.
“Mum—that’s him! From online. He’s real!”
Sometimes, to stay, you don’t need to go anywhere. You don’t need to shout or prove a thing. Just *be*. In one place. For a long while. Warm enough that someone walking by might think, *Glad he’s here*. And smile.
