THE BENCH

She brought two apples, two cookies, and hope. He brought silence

Now that he was retired, he found himself sitting on the bench for most of the day.

He couldn’t remember exactly how he found it, this perfect bench.
Tucked behind towering trees, it overlooked a modest, efficient fountain.

The sound of traffic, buses, cars, the occasional ambulance—faded into the fountain’s rhythm. He sometimes wondered if the designers had understood acoustics. Maybe they’d even planned it this way—a sanctuary hidden behind the overgrown greenery and the almost-forgotten gate.

Before retirement, he used to leave the house early to enjoy his coffee and bagel there. He’d slip away at lunch too, unnoticed. Only the rain kept him from paying his respects to the fountain and the quiet life around it.

Once someone found this place, he noticed, they always came back.
Maybe not often. But they returned.
Very few people visited just once.

Now, he came every day.
Breakfast. Lunch. Sometimes an evening snack.

He sat for so long that he half, expected roots to grow from his feet, branches to sprout from his shoulders.

He watched the comings and goings with a quiet sadness and a delight he never could explain. He was curious—always had been. He often wondered how the others had found their benches. But he never asked. He respected the silence.

There was one woman he watched more closely than the rest.
She always seemed slightly out of place, dressed for a different kind of day.

Her hair was always pulled back the same way, year after year, even as the gray started to shine under the sun.

In summer, she wore bright dresses.

In fall, cardigans and slacks.
She vanished in the winter.

But come spring, like the daffodils—she returned.

Always with a bright scarf.
Always with a kind of quiet joy.

She would sit down with precise excitement, pulling out two napkins—placing one on her lap and laying out her lunch with care.

Then, just as deliberately, she’d place a second napkin beside her.
Two cookies. Two apples.

She sat and ate quietly. Then waited.

When the meal was done, she folded her napkin slowly, placed it back in her bag. Then, with careful, almost reluctant hands, she wrapped the untouched cookies and apples. She’d glance around the park one last time before standing.

As she left, he could see the effort it took for her to hold her head high.

Who was she waiting for all these years?
Why did they never come?

He would think of her for a while, until the next bench resident arrived—a man with two children.