The Last Bench
Every morning at exactly 7:30, Victor stepped out of his house. Not because he was in a hurry—he hadn’t had a job in years—but because his body knew the routine: the morning light, the creak of the gate, the chill on the doorstep. The streets were used to his footsteps; the stray dogs didn’t growl, and the corner shopkeepers never offered him tea—they knew he carried his own thermos. He’d give them a slight nod, barely perceptible, as if to say, *Everything’s in order. Right as rain.*
He’d walk across the courtyard, past the old post office and the abandoned bus stop, always pausing at the rickety bench on the corner. He’d sit, unscrew his thermos, and unfold a newspaper on his lap. He never actually read it—just held it, as part of the ritual. Instead, he watched the street. The people. The city rushing past, oblivious to his presence. He saw faces change, children grow, everything speeding up while he stayed put—not a monument, but something unshakable, like the ancient oak in the village square.
The bench was ancient. Cracked, peeling, with a wobbly back that threatened to collapse in the next stiff breeze. It had been installed back when Victor still worked for the council—fixing locks, lugging pipes, sharing jokes with his mates over lunch. He’d tightened the bolts himself, anchoring it to the ground like giving it roots. Now it stood forgotten by everyone but him. The bolts rusted, but they held—like stubborn memories.
Sometimes, people sat beside him. An old lady with a shopping bag, a schoolboy with a pasty, a bloke with a scruffy terrier. They’d glance at phones, check watches, and hurry off. Victor stayed. As if he were part of the bench—its shadow, its heartbeat, its quiet defiance.
One morning, a woman in her mid-thirties approached with a camera. She hesitated, then smiled, but there was an awkwardness to it.
“Mind if I take your photo?” she asked, fiddling with the camera strap.
Victor squinted up at her, the morning sun in his eyes.
“Me? Why?” His voice was rough but not unkind.
“It’s for a project. I photograph people who *stay*—not the ones rushing by, but the ones who hold a place. You’re like… a root of this town. Impossible to miss.”
He chuckled, adjusted his worn jacket, glanced at the newspaper.
“Fine, snap away. Just make sure they know I’m not napping—I’m *pondering*. Wouldn’t want rumours about some old codger dozing off.”
“I’ll say you’re a keeper of time,” she replied, eyes twinkling.
“Then take it with the sun. Cheerier that way.”
A week later, his photo popped up in the local Facebook group. The post got hundreds of comments. *“That’s the bloke from the bench!”* *“He’s always there.”* *“Like part of the pavement.”* And Victor kept sitting. Sipping tea. Watching passersby. Occasionally returning a glance with a faint smile, as if recognising those who’d recognised him first.
Come spring, the council decided to replace the bench. A worker arrived with a shiny new one—sleek metal, smooth handrails, a plastic back. It looked alien, too polished, like a visitor from another world. Victor studied it, stood, and stepped back. One stride, then another, as if about to walk away for good—but he stopped.
“Not sorry to see it go?” the worker asked, tools jingling.
“The bench? Course I am,” Victor said, not looking at him but at the spot where the old one’s shadow used to fall. “But it wasn’t just mine.”
He didn’t argue. Just left. But that evening, when the courtyard emptied, he returned. Brought a tin of paint and a brush. On the new bench, right where the old one had cracked, he painted a thin line—barely there, like a memory’s scar. Then he sat, poured his tea, unfolded the paper. And for a second, even the metal seemed to creak in recognition.
From then on, he kept coming. Same time, same place—like the hour hand completing its circle. Drinking bitter, iron-scented tea from his thermos. Watching the street, the people hurrying past, unaware that memory could be a bench. Some passersby nodded in recognition. A few even paused to say, *“Alright?”*
Once, a little boy tugged his mum’s sleeve and pointed:
“Mum, look! It’s that man! From the internet. He’s *real*!”
Sometimes, to stay, you don’t need to go anywhere. You don’t need to shout or prove a thing. You just have to *be*. In one place. For a long time. With warmth. So someone, walking by, might think, *“Glad he’s here.”* And smile.
