One Stop
You know, Id seen this bloke before, but that particular Monday something just clicked: the time on my phone read 8:12, the Number 7 tram pulled up, andlike clockworkthere was the elderly man standing by the middle doors. He wore a dark jacket and a knitted hat, clutching a neatly folded pharmacy bag in his hand. He gripped the handrail as if he was testing its strength, eyes fixed not on the window but the worn seal between floor and wall, where the rubber had faded to a dull grey.
The other passengerSimonwas heading to work, just two stops away. It was a tiny morning journey, usually spent hidden away behind headphones. But recently, Simon found himself taking one earpiece out, listening to the hum inside the tram as if something meaningful might happen. Didnt, though. The tram groaned around corners, the conductor grumbled at anyone dodging fares, some folks flicked through the news, others cradled their bags on their knees.
Yet, there was something about this old man. He was like a marker in the day: always at the same time, always on the same bit of route. Simon saw him sometimes by the window, sometimes at the door, but always for just one stop. The man boarded at Garden Square, travelled to General Hospital, stepped off and wandered towards the long grey building, behind which the old park started.
That Monday, Simon stood nearby. The tram jerked, and the man lost his footing for a moment. Simon instinctively steadied him with an elbow.
Careful, he said.
The man gave a nod, eyes still lowered.
Thank you.
His voice was measured, calmsomeone used to only speaking when necessary.
At the next stop, a woman with a crutch boarded. Simon got up to let her sit. The old chap in the dark jacket, as if prompted by some inner routine, shuffled to the side, leaving space. He held his pharmacy bag so as not to disturb anyone, and Simon noticed how deliberate the movement was, too practiced for a casual passenger.
The conductor pushed through.
Tickets, please, she said, waving the card reader.
The man produced his contactless debit card, tapped it, waited for the beep, and slipped it back into his pocket. Simon noticed his fingers: thin, nails trimmed neatly, no ring on the fourth finger. It didnt mean anything, really, but Simon clocked it all the same.
At General Hospital, the doors swung open. The man stepped onto the platform, paused for a second to let the crowd pass, then left. Simon hopped off too, though his stop was still ahead. He convinced himself it was just to stretch his legs.
The stop smelt of damp tarmac and the pharmacy behind the shelter. The man didnt go towards the pharmacy; he crossed at the zebra and headed for the hospital gates, where a sign listed the visiting hours. Simon walked a few paces behind, giving space so as not to appear intrusive. The man stopped at the gate, glanced at the signas though checking it anew every daybefore turning into the park, down the path between towering poplars.
Simon slowed, then halted. He realised it wasnt his place to walk any further. The old man disappeared into the trees, and Simon returned to the stop, caught the next tram, and headed to work, feeling oddly irked with himself. He disliked being drawn into other peoples business.
The next day, he saw the man again. And the day after. And again. Simon began adjusting his routine to be in the same tram carriage. He told himself it was coincidence, not that he was keeping tabs.
One Thursday, the tram was delayed at the traffic lights. It got crowded; someone stepped on Simons shoe. The old man was nearby, and Simon noticed the pharmacy logo on the bag, a corner of a paper prescription poking out.
Are you going far? Simon asked, not sure why those words came out.
For the first time, the man looked him squarely in the eye. His gaze was pale, tired, but precise.
No, he replied. Just one stop.
Every day? Simon regretted it immediately. It sounded nosy.
The man didnt seem bothered. He gave a slight shrug.
Most days.
Simon nodded, pretending the conversation was over. But the silence felt differentalmost full, rather than empty. The man looked back down, and Simon spotted a loose strand of yarn on his hat. He wanted to mention it, but stayed silent.
At General Hospital, the man got off. Simon stayed puthe was late. As the tram pulled away, Simon had a feeling hed missed something important, even though nothing much had happened.
On Friday, Simon disembarked with the man again. This time, he didnt follow him into the park. He paused at the shelter and watched as the man crossed the road, stopping at the gate before heading into the park. For a moment, he thought the man glanced back, but perhaps it was just a turn of the head.
That weekend, Simon skipped the route. Come Monday, when he returned to his usual routine, he felt himself looking forward to the encounter, the way you do with a brief chat from a newsagent who always says morning the same way. The anticipation felt odd.
On Tuesday, the tram was nearly empty. Simon took his seat by the window. The man boarded at Garden Square, stood close, holding the rail. Today, he had no pharmacy bagjust a slim folder with an elastic, like the kind you keep documents in.
Morning, said Simon.
The man nodded.
Morning.
Sorry, Simon whispered, glancing around. I notice you most days you always get off at General Hospital. Not trying to pry, just
He trailed off, lost for the right words. The man didnt rush him. The tram clattered over points, filling the pause.
You think its strange, the man said.
I think its important, Simon repliedand surprised himself for saying so.
The man almost smiled, but it faded quickly.
Important, yes. For me.
The doors hissed shut and the tram moved on. Simon felt his shoulders tense, bracing for some sorrow. He didnt want the man to pour out heartbreak, didnt want to be a witness unsure what to do with his hands.
My names John Harris, the man said simply, as if it was nothing. Yours?
Simon.
Simon, John repeated, as if testing how the name felt on his tongue. I get off at General Hospital because my wife was in the ward. For quite a while.
He said was softlynot like at a funeral, just a fact woven into the day.
Simon stayed silent, staring at the glass and their reflections, knowing the less he said, the better.
I used to bring her here, John went on. When it was allowed. Later, it wasnt. Eventually it was all over.
He didnt say died, or passed. He just left the space blank, and Simon knew that was right.
And you still come? Simon asked.
Yes, John adjusted the folder. I walk along the path to a bench. We used to sit there, when she was allowed out. I sit for ten minutessometimes less. Then I head back. If I dont, it feels like the day hasnt started. If it starts without it well
John fell quiet, and Simon saw his chin tremornot tears, just a flicker of muscle.
You dont have to explain, Simon said.
Im not explaining, John replied calmly. Just saying how it is.
Soon, the tram rolled up to General Hospital. John stepped off. Simon followed.
Are you going somewhere? John asked, not surprised, but neither inviting.
To work, Simon replied. But I could walk with you, if you dont mind.
John looked at him closely, the way people do when someone offers help out of confusion, not pity.
Walk then, he said. Just no talking, alright?
They crossed the road. At the gates, John paused, scanned the sign. Simon realised it was part of a ritual; a way of checking the world was still upright. Then they entered the park. The path was damp, leaves stuck to their shoes. John walked slow but steady, unsupported.
The bench was at the edge of a small clearing, with a view of the hospitals second floor windows. John sat, laid the folder on his lap but didnt open it. Simon sat beside him, leaving a respectful gap.
Minutes passed. Simon heard the distant rumble of traffic, the creak of a swing in the empty playground. John just looked at the window, and Simon couldnt tell if he saw something or simply needed to keep his gaze steady to avoid crumbling.
Whats in the folder? Simon asked, breaking their silence, gently.
John wasnt upset.
Discharge papers, he said. I carry them. No idea why. Got used to it. Theres a note from her too. Shorther hand shook. I kept it then, and now now I take it everywhere, like a pass.
Simon nodded. He realised the folder wasnt for the doctors or forms. It was so John could tell himself: That actually happened.
I used to think I should stop coming, John continued. Neighbour said I was tormenting myself. But Im not. I just keep the thread going. If I break it, I dont know what is left.
Simon wanted to say that what remains is life, people, a different way. But he realised it would sound right only to the one saying it, not the one hearing it.
I understand, he said instead, though he didnt fully.
John turned slightly.
No need to understand. Its enough youre here.
After a while, John stood. He tucked the folder under his arm, checked the elastic carefully, fearing the papers might slip out. Simon also stood.
Lets go, John said.
They returned to the stop. The Number 7 tram arrived. John made his habitual move toward the door, but paused.
Simon, he said, I wont head straight back today.
Simon looked at him.
How then?
John nodded towards the street, where a small market started and the road led to the riverside.
Lets walk to the next stop, he said. Theres a kioskI sometimes buy a newspaper. I never used to, but now I think its alright.
That alright sounded like he was giving himself permission for a small change, without betraying the old routine.
Sounds good, Simon said.
The tram rumbled away around the bend. They walked down the road. John kept the folder snug under his arm, adjusted his hat with his free hand. Simon stayed alongside, matching his pace.
At the kiosk, John bought a paper and folded it neatly in half. He looked ahead at the next tram stop, where people were gathering.
One stop, he said, tasting the words. Today two. But Ill still take the tram. Just a bit further.
Simon nodded. He didnt say anything comforting. He simply kept walking, and that was enough to let the old ritual shift, leaving room for the next day.
