Every Sunday morning, Meera came to the old wooden bench by the lake. It had been a habit for years one she couldn't let go of, even after all the reasons for it had faded into memory.
She wore the same shawl each time. It was old, fraying at the edges, but soft and warm. The shawl had once belonged to her mother, who used to walk with her around this same lake when Meera was a little girl. Her mother would bring a flask of tea and a slice of lemon cake wrapped in wax paper. They would sit, talk, or just listen to the birds.
Years later, when Meera married and moved away, she rarely visited. Life had become crowded with work deadlines, school runs, and dinner plans. The lake belonged to another time. But after her mother passed away, grief pulled her back to that bench.
She came the first Sunday after the funeral and found the bench still standing though now covered in moss and surrounded by overgrown grass. That morning, she cried for the first time in days. It was as if the lake had waited for her to return, offering a quiet space to feel everything she hadn't allowed herself to feel in front of others.
Since then, the bench had become a ritual. Sometimes she brought a book, sometimes just herself. Some mornings were filled with memories, others with silence.
One foggy Sunday, as she sat sipping tea, a boy around ten years old approached, holding a fishing rod awkwardly. He looked at her, unsure.
"You fish here?" he asked.
"Not really," Meera smiled. "But I used to watch my father fish here when I was your age."
The boy nodded, then asked if he could sit.
They didn't speak much after that, but he returned the next week, and the next. Gradually, their silence became a bond. His name was Sami, and he lived nearby. His parents had recently separated, and the lake was his escape.
Meera never pried, but she listened when he chose to talk. Over time, the bench by the lake was no longer just a place of mourning it became a space of quiet healing, for both of them.
Sometimes life doesn't need grand resolutions. Sometimes it just needs a place to sit, a bit of sun, and someone beside you who understands without needing to explain.
And so, the old bench remained weathered, sturdy, and full of stories.
