The frail man sat on the same bench every day, his small dog on his lap and a bunch of roses in his hand.
He looked like a painting.
“They say he waits there every day for his wife. But she died years ago.”
He smiled at this most common rumour. It was only partly true.
Joan had indeed died years ago. And roses had been her favourite. But he wasn’t waiting for her.
He was waiting for the next Joan.
A woman sat down next to him.
She petted the dog.
The frail man smiled. “These are for you.”
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