I didn’t know who she was.
Only that she had been there.
The bench still held her shape. The cup was empty, but the steam still lingered in the wood.
There was a leaf pressed flat beside the armrest.
And a feeling that someone had cried here — not today, but recently.
I didn’t move anything. Just sat where she sat. Tried to hold still enough for the moment to return.
It didn’t. But something else did.
A softness.
Like the air had seen me before. Like the bench didn’t mind repeating itself.
I closed my eyes. And breathed with a quiet that felt borrowed.
Maybe I didn’t sit where she was —
Maybe I sat where I would need to be, someday.
Maybe benches carry more than people. Maybe they carry memory.
And maybe that’s enough.