A Watch, a Father, and a Night of Unexpected Discoveries

I never envisioned that a typical evening performing my duties as a doorman would entirely overturn my reality.

It commenced like any other work session—some elderly, inebriated gentlemen engaged in a vehement dispute at one of the tables, thus necessitating my expulsion of one of them. I verified his non-return, and frankly, I dismissed it from my mind entirely.

However, the subsequent morning, an object captured my attention at the table where those individuals had been arguing.

I approached and discerned an antiquated watch resting there. The instant I grasped it, my heart nearly ceased its rhythm. It was my paternal watch. The singular markings upon it were unmistakable.

For contextual understanding, my father has been absent for over two decades. He served in the armed forces during my youth and never journeyed back home. Ultimately, I was compelled to accept his likely permanent absence.

Yet now, observing this watch, I comprehended that the man who possessed it might harbor the solution to the actual occurrences concerning my father. Therefore, I resolved to locate this unfamiliar person, resolute in my intention to unveil the verity…⬇️My pursuit commenced the very next evening I was on duty. I discreetly inquired amongst my colleagues if anyone recalled the previous night’s intoxicated patron. Thankfully, Maria, the bartender, possessed a sharper memory than I initially anticipated. “Old fella, bit rough around the edges, kept rambling about old times, something about the army actually,” she recounted, snapping her fingers as if trying to retrieve a fleeting detail. “Said his name was… Arthur? Or something like that. Definitely started with an A.”

Arthur. It was a common enough name, yet a sliver of hope pierced through the years of resignation I had carried. I delved into the security footage from the previous night. Grainy and indistinct, it still offered a visual – a man with a weathered face, a shock of grey hair escaping from under a worn cap, and a stooped posture. He had been wearing a faded green jacket. Not much, but it was a start.

For days, every shift became an undercover investigation. I scanned faces, listened to snippets of conversations, and subtly questioned regulars, always leading with a casual inquiry about “an older gentleman, perhaps a bit worse for wear, answers to something like Arthur, green jacket?” Weeks bled into months, each fruitless inquiry chipping away at my initial fervor. Doubt, a familiar unwelcome guest, began to creep back in. Perhaps it was just a coincidence. Perhaps the watch wasn’t my father’s at all, despite the etched initials and the peculiar scratch on the face that mirrored a childhood memory of us fixing it together.

Just as I was about to concede defeat, a flicker of recognition ignited in the eyes of old Mr. Henderson, a kindly man who frequented the bar for his nightly pint and crossword. “Arthur, you say?” he mused, tapping his chin with his pen. “Green jacket? Sounds a bit like old ‘Artie’ who sometimes hangs around O’Malley’s down the road. Rough crowd there, mind you, but Artie… he’s harmless enough, just a bit lost, I reckon.”

O’Malley’s. A dimly lit, down-at-heel pub a few blocks away. Not my usual haunt, but hope, however fragile, propelled me forward. The following evening, after my shift, I ventured to O’Malley’s. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the murmur of low voices. I scanned the room, my heart pounding a nervous rhythm against my ribs. And then, in a shadowy corner booth, I saw him.

The green jacket, the grey hair peeking from under a cap, the stooped posture. It was him. Arthur. He was nursing a pint, staring blankly into the amber liquid. I approached cautiously, my palms suddenly slick with sweat.

“Excuse me, sir,” I began, my voice a little shaky. “Are you… Arthur?”

He looked up, startled, his eyes unfocused. “Aye, that’s me. Who’s asking?” His voice was raspy, worn by years and drink.

“My name is… well, it doesn’t matter right now. But I believe… I believe you might have something that belongs to me. Or rather, to my family.” I hesitated, then took a deep breath and plunged in. “A watch. An old watch. Did you… did you happen to find a watch recently?”

A flicker of confusion crossed his face, then a hazy recollection seemed to dawn. He reached into his pocket, his movements slow and deliberate, and pulled out a tarnished silver timepiece. My timepiece. My father’s timepiece.

“This old thing?” he slurred, turning it over in his hand. “Found it… somewhere. Don’t rightly remember where. Nice bit of kit, though.”

My voice caught in my throat. “Sir… this watch belonged to my father. He… he went missing a long time ago. He was in the army.”

Arthur’s gaze sharpened slightly, a glimmer of something akin to recognition in his clouded eyes. “Army, you say?” He squinted at me, his brow furrowed in concentration. “Army… I was in the army.”

A wave of dizziness washed over me. “Did you… did you know a man… his name was [Father’s Name]?” I managed to whisper, my heart hammering against my chest like a trapped bird.

Arthur stared at the watch in his hand, then back at me. A slow, painful memory seemed to be surfacing in his mind. “ [Father’s Name]… Yeah… [Father’s Name]… Good man. Good soldier.” His voice trailed off, lost in the fog of the past.

“Where… where did you know him from?” I pressed, my voice trembling with anticipation and fear.

He looked at me, his eyes suddenly clearer, filled with a profound sadness. “We served together. A long time ago. In… in a bad place.” He paused, taking a shaky breath. “We were… captured. Prisoners of war.”

The air seemed to thicken, to become heavy and suffocating. Prisoner of war. My father, a prisoner of war. For twenty years? Unthinkable.

“What… what happened to him?” I choked out, bracing myself for the answer I both desperately craved and dreaded.

Arthur’s gaze dropped to the table, his voice barely above a whisper. “He… he didn’t make it. Camp was… brutal. He was… sick. Weak. He… he died there.”

Silence descended, heavy and absolute. The clinking of glasses, the murmur of voices around us faded into insignificance. My father was dead. Not just absent, not just lost, but dead. A prisoner of war, lost to a brutal camp, decades ago.

Tears welled in my eyes, blurring my vision. Years of unanswered questions, years of aching absence, finally resolved in the most devastating way imaginable. Yet, amidst the crushing grief, a strange sense of peace began to settle within me. The uncertainty was gone. The agonizing not-knowing was over. I had the truth, however painful.

I reached out and gently took the watch from Arthur’s trembling hand. “Thank you,” I murmured, my voice thick with emotion. “Thank you for… for telling me.”

Arthur looked at me, his eyes filled with a weary compassion. “He was a good man,” he repeated softly. “Remember him. Remember him as a good man.”

I nodded, clutching the watch tightly in my hand, the cold metal a tangible link to a father I barely remembered, yet had never stopped missing. The evening had started as a typical work night, but it had ended with the closure of a lifelong wound. The truth was a heavy burden, but it was also a release. The long night was finally over, and a new, albeit somber, dawn was breaking. I finally knew what had happened to my father, and in knowing, I could finally begin to truly grieve, and perhaps, eventually, to heal.