The Offline Club

Rob had grown used to silence.

The kind of silence that came after someone you loved was gone. Not the peaceful sort, but the heavy one that settled into the walls of the house, that pressed against you when you sat alone in the evening, that sometimes made you long for noise, any noise, just to break it.

Two years had passed since Helen’s death, and though the sharpness of grief had dulled, Rob still found himself looking at the armchair opposite his in the lounge, half-expecting to see her with her knitting needles or her paperback novel. Instead, there was just the faint ticking of the clock and the hum of the fridge in the kitchen.

On a chilly Tuesday afternoon in late autumn, Rob stood by the lounge window nursing a mug of tea, staring out at the garden. His hedges needed trimming, and the lawn was scattered with golden leaves. But it wasn’t the mess of the garden that caught his attention.

It was the boy.

He sat on Rob’s low front wall, shoulders hunched, a phone clutched tightly in both hands. The screen’s pale glow lit his face, and Rob could see the boy’s features flickering through a range of emotions – fear, shame, embarrassment. His eyes darted, lips pressing together, then loosening again as if words were forming in his mind but had no place to go.

Rob frowned, this wasn’t the first time he had seen the boy.  At first he had barely noticed him walking past the house on his way to and from school.  Always on his own, always looking at his phone.  In the last month or so however he had seen him sitting on the wall a few times.  Looking at his phone, retreating further into himself each time.

Moving back slowly from the window so he couldn’t be seen, Rob slowly drank his tea, watching the boy struggle.  It had been almost fifteen minutes. He hadn’t moved once.

Rob set down his mug, walked through to the kitchen, slipped on his gardening gloves, and picked up a bundle of tools. If nothing else, the hedge could use some attention. And maybe, just maybe, the boy could use a little distraction.

He stepped out the back door, walked around to the front, and called softly, “I’m sorry to ask, but could you possibly give me a hand for a second?”

The boy startled, glancing up from his phone as though he’d just surfaced from deep water.

“Uh… me?”

“Yes, you,” Rob said with a small smile. He held out a roll of twine and a peg. “I can’t hold this and tie it at the same time. My fingers aren’t what they used to be.”

Hesitant at first, the boy put down his phone on the wall and shuffled over. He held the peg steady while Rob wound the twine around. It was a simple task, barely a minute’s work, but Rob felt a curious relief as he saw the boy’s shoulders relax slightly.

“Thank you,” Rob said. “You’ve saved me from a battle with knots.”

The boy gave the tiniest of smiles.

“I’m Rob, by the way.”

“Andy,” the boy murmured.

“Well, Andy, much appreciated. Sometimes another pair of hands makes all the difference.”

Andy nodded, already retreating back toward the wall, but his phone lay forgotten for a moment longer than Rob expected.

The next day, Rob was back in the garden around three-thirty, rake in hand. He wasn’t raking so much as keeping an eye out. Sure enough, Andy appeared, moving slowly along the pavement after school. He paused, glanced at Rob, then hesitated at the wall.

“Need help again?” Andy asked, half-smiling this time.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Rob said, holding up a stubbornly tangled hose. “This thing’s been plotting against me all morning.”

Andy laughed, and it was the first real laugh Rob had heard from him.

Over the next few days, the routine continued. Andy would linger, Rob would find some excuse—hedges, twine, a wobbly flowerpot—and Andy would help. Slowly, words trickled out between them, like water finding its way into dry soil.

Andy was a bit of a loner, it turned out. He lived with his mum and younger sister a few streets over. He liked art but hated PE. He liked pizza but couldn’t stand mushrooms.

As the days and weeks passed, they built up a strange kind of friendship.  When it was time for school to let out, Rob would make sure he was in the garden with something that Andy could be helpful with.  Andy would trudge along the road like a typical teen then catch sight of Rob out of the corner of his eye.  He would look at Rob, eyebrow raised in silent question.  Rob would reply holding up whatever item was problem of the day.  Andy would come over to help and they would work together slowly getting to know each other.

And, after a while, Andy admitted the truth about the phone.

“They won’t leave me alone,” Andy muttered one damp Thursday afternoon as they packed away garden tools. “It’s not just at school. It’s… everywhere. On my phone, I mean. Messages, posts, stupid pictures. If I turn it off, I just… I just know it’s piling up, waiting.”

Rob’s heart squeezed. He thought of the expression he’d seen on Andy’s face that first day—terror, embarrassment—and suddenly it all made sense.

“Well,” Rob said gently, “at least when you’re helping me in the garden, you don’t have your phone to look at.”

Andy blinked, then gave a small, almost sheepish smile. “I never thought of it that way. Shame the weather’s getting colder, though.”

Rob chuckled. “If you want, we could work in the garage when it rains. I can teach you about my motorbike.”

Andy’s eyes lit up. “You have a motorbike?”

“Sure do. Old Triumph. Needs more patience than I have some days. But she’s a beauty.”

“Can I really see it?”

“Only if you agree to my one rule.” Rob wagged a finger. “No phones allowed.”

Andy grinned, the first unguarded grin Rob had seen on him. “Deal.”

The garage became their haven.

On stormy afternoons, Andy would pull on an old jacket Rob lent him, and together they’d tinker with the Triumph. Rob showed him how to check the oil, clean the spark plugs, and polish the chrome until it gleamed. Andy’s hands grew grubby, his phone forgotten in his backpack.

Sometimes they didn’t even work on the bike. They’d build shelves, patch up old tools, or simply sit with mugs of cocoa while the rain drummed on the roof.

Months passed. Winter melted into spring, and by then Andy had something to confess.

“I don’t really use my phone anymore,” Andy said one afternoon, rubbing a smear of grease from his cheek. “I mean, I still have it, but unless it’s my mum or gran texting, I don’t bother. I deleted some apps. The ones that made me feel… well, you know.”

Rob chuckled. “I remember when phones were just for calling people. Imagine that!”

Andy laughed, then hesitated. “Would it… would it be okay if I brought a friend along? To the, um, Offline Club?”

“Offline Club?” Rob repeated, grinning.

“Well, that’s what I call it in my head. No phones, just… real stuff.” Andy shrugged.

Rob’s smile widened. “I like it. And yes, your friend is welcome to join us.”

The Offline Club grew.

First Andy brought Ben, a wiry boy with freckles who loved football but admitted he never really talked to anyone outside of practice. Then came Leah, who was shy at first but turned out to have a knack for fixing things.

Soon, Rob’s garage was filled with laughter and chatter. They built birdhouses, repaired old garden furniture, even planted a vegetable patch out back. The rule was always the same: no phones.

Word spread. More kids joined. Parents started noticing changes—less stress, fewer tantrums, more eye contact at dinner tables. Teachers noticed, too. Homework was handed in more often. Marks improved. The atmosphere in classrooms lightened.

Bullying didn’t vanish overnight, but without phones amplifying every cruel word, it lost much of its power.

By summer, even some parents asked if they could join in. Rob chuckled the first time a mum turned up with her sleeves rolled up, ready to weed the garden. Soon, community events were buzzing again—barbecues, park clean-ups, charity runs—all with more volunteers than anyone could remember.

The Offline Club wasn’t just for kids anymore. It was for everyone.

One warm evening, Rob sat on his back step, watching the children chase each other around the garden while the grown-ups manned the barbecue. Lanterns hung from the trees, glowing softly as dusk fell.

Andy plopped down beside him, flushed and grinning.

“Can you believe this all started because I sat on your wall?”

Rob smiled. “Can you believe I only asked you for help with some twine?”

Andy laughed, then grew thoughtful. “Thanks, Rob. For… everything. I didn’t think things could ever feel like this again.”

Rob’s throat tightened. He thought of Helen, of the silence that had once filled his house. And then he looked at the laughter spilling across his garden, at the friendships blooming where loneliness had been, at the boy who’d found courage in putting down his phone.

“Funny thing,” Rob said softly. “I didn’t think things could feel like this again, either.”

Andy leaned against his shoulder for a moment, just a kid being comfortable, and Rob felt the ache in his chest ease a little more.

The Offline Club wasn’t just changing Andy’s life.

It was changing Rob’s, too.

And the suburb itself—well, it was a brighter place to live than anyone had thought possible.

All because one day, a boy sat on a wall, and a man decided to ask for help.