Three Stories.

11.10.2025

Stories where you might recognise something of yourself, or simply stay for a while...

The Sandwich

Eight years old, tucked away at the back of the classroom, pretending hunger wasn’t gnawing at him. Curled up, head in one hand, eyes fixed on the blackboard as if numbers could fill an empty stomach.

In his backpack there were only exercise books and tap water in a reused fizzy drink bottle. Sometimes his stomach ached so much that everything went dark for a moment. He’d learnt to breathe slowly, quietly, so that no one would notice. He didn’t like pity. Or questions.

That day a boy sat down beside him. He was new to the class. Fair, messy hair. Carried a hint of strawberries. Towards the end of the lesson, he nudged him gently with his elbow and, without a word, handed him a small parcel wrapped in a napkin.

‘Cheese and tomato,’ he said. ‘Mum gave me two.’

He didn’t reply, just slipped it into his bag. When the bell rang, he ran down the stairs and slipped away to the caretaker’s storeroom. The door didn’t close properly, but he held it with his foot.

He sat on an old crate of mops and took out the slightly squashed sandwich. It still smelled of fresh bread. He ate it slowly, bite by bite, as if it were something more than just bread, cheese and tomato.

Now, every day, he makes twenty sandwiches. Wraps them in paper, packs them into a box, and carries them to the community centre three streets from his home. He usually doesn’t watch who takes one. But now and then, without meaning to, he notices small hands reaching shyly for a cheese and tomato sandwich.

And when he sees it, his face softens into a quiet smile. Because he knows someone has just caught the scent of strawberries. Just like he once did.

The Bench

Every day, at the same hour, he sits in his usual spot. The third bench from the gate, beneath a tree that leans gently towards the path, as if trying to listen in. An older man, always in the same coat, even on warm days. Grey, buttoned up, and always carrying a thermos.

He lowers himself slowly, with a sigh that sounds as though he’s carrying an entire day inside him.

He doesn’t look at anyone. Doesn’t glance around. He always chooses the left-hand side, leaving the space on the right, as though someone might still join him. Then he rests his hand on the empty spot, brushing it lightly. A touch familiar and tender, as though he were smoothing a knee, a hand, or a memory.

I sit on the bench opposite. Sometimes with a book. Sometimes with nothing but silence. I don’t stare, but I see.

Once, for a moment, he closed his eyes, speaking some quiet conversation inside his head. His hand remained in place. It moved slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if replying to someone’s smile.

One day he didn’t come. At first I thought he might be late. Then I realised it might have been goodbye.

The Cracked Cup

In a small flat, on the top shelf, sat a cup. Delicate porcelain, with a thin crack running along its handle. It really shouldn’t have been used for drinking anymore. Yet every morning, someone poured tea into it. Green, sometimes with jasmine.

No one threw it away. No one said, ‘It’s no good now.’ Because that crack was its story. A sign that the cup had endured.

One day, someone asked: ‘Why don’t you buy a new one? That one’s cracked.’

The owner of the cup replied, ‘Because it reminds me of myself. I cracked once too, and for a long time believed I was good for nothing. Then someone came, poured warmth into me instead of throwing me away. Suddenly everything made sense.’

From that moment on, the cup was no longer just a vessel. It became a memory of kindness. Of someone who didn’t try to fix, but simply loved. Despite everything.

And maybe you’re a cup like that too — with a tiny crack from a past that hurt, but still able to hold warmth if someone knows how.