It sat where it always had—beneath the maple tree at the edge of the park, where shadows lingered a little longer and the wind sometimes sounded like old lullabies. Gregory hadn't meant to find it. He was simply walking, aimless and open.
But there it was.
The bench.
Peeling paint. A brass plaque too worn to read. And next to it, a note.
Just two words:
"Sit here."
So he did.
Maurice hopped onto the armrest, puffed his feathers in approval. "Good benches know when you're ready. This one's been saving your seat."
The air was still. Like the world paused to let him feel.
From beneath the bench, a paper rustled. Gregory bent and picked it up. Another note.
"This is where you met yourself last time."
And suddenly he remembered: not a specific event, but a sensation—the first time he sat still long enough to feel his own weight, to hear his own breath, to forgive himself for not being extraordinary every day.
