The Man Who Waited Every Evening

Every evening at exactly six o’clock, the old man sat on the same wooden bench outside the hospital.

Rain or sunshine.

Winter or summer.

He was always there.

People passed him daily — nurses rushing home,

families laughing,

patients smoking quietly by the gate.

No one ever asked why he waited.

Except Lina.

She was a nursing student, new to the hospital.

The first week she noticed him, she thought he was waiting for a patient inside.

The second week, she realized no one ever came out to meet him.

The third week, curiosity won.

Sir,” she said gently one evening,

are you waiting for someone?

He smiled. A soft, tired smile.

Yes, he answered. My wife.

Lina glanced toward the hospital doors.

She’s inside?

No, he said. She’s gone.

Lina froze.

I’m sorry… then why do you come every day?

He looked at the sky as the sun dipped orange behind the buildings.

Because this is where I last saw her breathe.

Years ago, he explained, his wife had been admitted suddenly.

No warning.

No time to prepare.

He had complained that morning about a cold cup of tea.

He had rushed her out the door, annoyed about being late for work.

He had kissed her forehead without really looking at her.

I thought I would see her again that night,

he whispered.

But she never left the hospital alive.

Silence settled between them.

After she died, he continued,

the house became too quiet.

The chair across from me stayed empty.

Her shoes stayed by the door.

So I started coming here.

Why here? Lina asked.

Because here, he said, tapping the bench, is the last place I was still her husband.

Lina felt tears burn.

Every day I sit,

he said,

and I remember how she laughed,

how she folded the laundry,

how she stole food from my plate even when she said she wasn’t hungry.

He smiled again — this time broken.

I don’t come because I expect her to return.

I come because love doesn’t know how to stop.

From that day on, Lina brought him tea every evening.

They talked about life, about regrets, about the small moments people don’t realize are precious until they’re gone.

One rainy evening, the bench was empty.

The next day too.

Worried, Lina asked around.

A guard told her softly,

The old man passed away two nights ago.

Her chest tightened.

He had a heart attack. Peaceful.

Lina walked to the bench and sat alone.

Under the wood, someone had carved small words:

I waited until I could see her again.

Lina finally understood.

Some people don’t fear death.

They fear living without love.