The Man On The Bench
For as long as anyone can remember, the man always say at the bench. Many rumours spread, but no one knew who he was, where he lived, or why he never moved from his place of rest. All anyone could do- all anyone felt comfortable doing- was watching.
Marvellously, the decades that passed by did nothing to him, nor his clothes- even the bench suffered, with the wood slowly becoming home to vibrant green algae. But he still didn't move. His velvet jacket stood him out in the greenery of the park he resided in, despite many too ignorant or too busy to notice his presence.
And his eyes. If anyone were to stay long enough or pay enough attention, they'd eventually lock themselves into their ferocity. They were focused-intent on completing a task, evident by the eventual rings that formed around them. Their only respite were the milliseconds of blinking. And then immediately focused once again.
Focused on what? If you followed his gaze you'd find yourself staring into the beautiful gardens orchestrated mainly for the peace-seekers- those people wanting time away from the bustling of loud people and changing times. But more specifically, resting naturally in the corner weeps a stone statue- an angel, the mystery of her face concealed by cupped hands enveloping her tears. Were they tears of sadness? Was she cowering away from the piercing stares of the old man?
Time created and destroyed the landscapes over and over and over again, but the man and his angel remained constant, like hunter and prey frozen in the moments before death.
A passerby- a child- bravely sat down next to the man and asked one day "Why are you always sitting here, staring at the statue?"
The only time the man ever responded to anything was at this moment, with a thick Scottish accent.
"I'm following orders."
"Whose?" The child quickly fired back.
"My own." With that, the boy stood up and walked away.
Time rolled on. Centuries passed. Then millennia. Then eons.
Until one day, when the last sliver of the angel turned to ashes in the earth. At which point, no happier or sad than before, the mysterious man who sat on the bench for so long, slowly rose up, and left as silently as he came.
When the first person noticed his absence, they say where he sat, and read the scrawling marked onto the bench permanently by the old man:
Run You Clever Boy
And Be A Doctor
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