The Bench

The Bench

Martin returned to the old wooden bench at the edge of Rosewood Garden, just as he had every morning since Margaret passed. It wasn't just a place to sit, it their place.

They had discovered in their twenties, newlyweds with more love than money. The first time they stumbled upon it, the bench was half-hidden beneath a canopy of golden maple leaves. Margaret called it their “thinking spot”. Over the decades, it became their private tradition: anniversaries, birthday, even quiet Tuesday nights if life was weighing on them, they came here.

Even after Margaret fell ill, Martin would visit the bench and tell her all about it afterwards. How the squirrels had nearly mugged a toddler for a cookie or how the city had finally fixed the flickering lamp post.

When she passed, Martin kept going. He wasn't ready to let it, or her, go.

He sat with a gentle exhale, his coat folded neatly on the wooden slats beside him. Her space. The late spring air carried a fading chill. He leaned back to the rustle of branches. It almost sounded like her voice.

“Evening.” a voice broke in. Soft but baritone.

Martin opened his eyes. A young man, maybe late twenties, had approached the branch. Thin, a little pale, with sharp features softened by a warm but unsure smile.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked.

Martin hesitated, then gestured to the far end of the bench. “It's public.”

The young man sat. They sat in silence for awhile, listening to the breeze and occasional laughter from the random people who pass by.

“I used to come here with someone too,” he said with longing in his tone, though the expression on his face remained neutral. “Funny how places hold pieces of us.”

Martin glanced at him, surprised. “Yes. My late wife. This was her favorite spot.”

The man nodded. “You looked like you were listening for something when I got here.”

“Maybe I was.” Martin replied, smiling\ faintly.

Martin went home that night but didn't expect to see him again. But, the next night, he was there. Already sitting in the same spot, as if he belonged to the bench now, too.

Night after night, they fell into an odd rhythm. They didn't exchange names. It was unspoken, perhaps even a little bit deliberate. They shared stories instead. The young man was kind, thoughtful, and most definitely curious. He asked about Margaret and then about Martin. To his own surprise, Martin found it easy to speak of her with him. The sorrow was still fresh, but this stranger with the kind words, didn't try to hush it or fix it away. He just sat there and listened.

“You must have loved her a lot,” the young man said one night. Not really a question but a statement.

“Still do,” Martin replied with a little catch in his throat.

Some nights the park was empty but for them. On others, families wandered by, dog's barked, or music drifted by from someone's stereo as they passed down the street just at the edge of the garden. But Martin only remembered the conversations. The moments suspended in twilight.

On the seventh night, the young man seemed......different. He shifted in his seat more than usual, his eyes drifting passed the tree line to the sky, to the shadows cast by the lamp light. After awhile, he stood and paced a few steps away, then back again. Like a thought he could not quite settle.

Martin watching him for a minute, asked. “You all right?”

The young man hesitated, then replied. “I think so. Just......quiet inside for the time in a long while.”

Martin tilted his head quizzically. “That a good thing?”

“I'm not sure yet.” He gave a small laugh, though it didn't reach his eyes. “It feels like something is coming to a close. Like I might have succeeded in what I needed to do.”

There was a long pause. The air felt unusually still.

“Anyway,” the young man said in a soft voice, “thanks for listening.”

Martin started to speak, but the words got tangled coming out. “You talk like you are going somewhere.”

The young man smiled faintly, this time a little more at ease, “Maybe I am.”

For the first time in their nights of conversation, he extended a hand. Martin took it, surprised by the touch - it was cooler then he had expected, colder then it should have been.

Neither of them spoke again. The young man gave a slow nod and wandered off down the beaten path of the garden to the other side.

Martin sat there long after his foot steps had faded away.

The next night Martin went to the bench but did not see the young man or any hint he had been there. He waited for awhile but no one came. Same thing the following night.

By the third night, he began to wonder if he had been hallucinating and imagined it all. Simply a way to make sense of it all.

The following morning he had turned on the TV to have the news playing in the background while he enjoyed his first coffee of the day. For some reason his eyes flickered towards the TV and his breath caught in his throat.

“Remains identified in Rosewood Garden woods believed to that of twenty eight year old Jonah Pierce, missing for over a year. Authorities sat a hiker stumbled upon the burial site earlier this week.....”

Martin froze.

The picture. It was him. The same sharp features, the same pale skin, that soft uncertain smile.

He turned the volume up. Words lie decomposition, closed case, and tragic accident filled the space. But none of it made sense. None of it sounded real.

Martin sank into the couch, the mug slipping from his hand and spilling across the floor.

Later that day he walked to the bench and sat down, folding his coat neatly and put it beside him. First for Margaret, then for Jonah.

The bench didn't feel empty anymore. Just full of memories.

Martin never told anyone of his experience with what he had seen, or who he had spoken to. Who would believe him?

But, every now and then, when the breeze blew just right, he thought he heard Jonah's voice saying, “Thank you.”

And, sometimes, Martin answered back.