"The Bench by the Lake"

The wooden bench by the lake had aged with time—its paint chipped, its legs slightly crooked—but it stood firm, as if waiting. Every Sunday at 4 p.m., Evelyn came and sat there, her fingers gently tracing the names carved into the wood: Evelyn & Thomas, 1987.

The lake was quiet now, especially in autumn. The water was covered in gold and red hues as the leaves swirled in the crisp wind. Evelyn’s coat flapped gently, and her gray hair peeked from beneath a maroon beret. She held a single white lily and a worn journal in her hands. On that very bench, Thomas had proposed to her 38 years earlier. At the time, it was spring, a time of promise, laughter, and sunlight. They were just 21 years old, madly in love, and poor in everything except their dreams. They raised two children and lost one before slowly building a life for themselves. Evelyn had been nearly broken when their youngest child, Emma, passed away, but Thomas had served as her support. When Thomas passed five years ago, a sudden heart attack in the middle of the night, Evelyn thought she’d lost everything. The house felt hollow, the silence sharp. She just kept coming to the bench, though. Only there did he feel like himself. esteem them. Today was different. Today marked what would’ve been their 40th wedding anniversary. As she opened her journal, her hands trembled slightly. She began to read aloud, her voice soft and cracked.

"Dear Thomas,

Five years have passed. Five years without your laugh, your quiet humming in the kitchen, your terrible jokes. In the way the sunlight hits the water and the wind, I still occasionally hear you. I still set your cup out in the morning. I know, silly old me. But it helps. It really does.

Do you remember that time we got caught in the rain here? You insisted on dancing like fools while everyone ran for cover. You stated, "We might as well enjoy it if we're going to get wet." That was you, wasn’t it? Always finding joy in the chaos.

I miss you, Tom. How much? But I think…I think I’m starting to smile more when I think of you, instead of just crying. Maybe that means I’m healing. Or maybe I’m just carrying you with me in a different way now.

Love always,

Evelyn."

She closed the journal and placed the lily on the bench beside her. The wind picked up a little, scattering a few leaves across the water. A young couple passed by, laughing, the girl clinging to the boy’s arm. Evelyn watched them with a bittersweet smile.

Suddenly, a small voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Excuse me, ma’am?”

She looked down to see a little boy, maybe six or seven, holding a sketchpad.

“Can I sit with you?” he asked.

Evelyn gave a soft grin. “Of course.”

He clambered up beside her, opened his sketchpad, and began drawing quietly. He re-spoke after a short while. “I come here with my dad sometimes. He says this bench is magic.”

“Oh?” Evelyn chuckled. "Why is that?" “Because people sit here and remember. Or feel better. Or fall in love.” He looked up at her. “Are you remembering someone?”

She nodded. “My husband.”

The boy studied her face for a moment, then offered his drawing. It was a sketch of the bench, the lake, and a figure sitting with a flower in her hand. It was crude but heartfelt.

“That’s you,” he said. “So you don’t forget you were here.”

Evelyn felt her throat tighten. “Thank you,” she whispered, touched beyond words.

As he ran off to join his dad, Evelyn looked down at the sketch, then back at the lake. The sky was becoming softly pink and orange as the sun began to set. She held the picture close to her chest.

Grief never really leaves, she realized. It takes on new forms. It becomes quieter, softer. And in moments like this—on a crooked bench by a peaceful lake—it allows space for joy to return.

And maybe, just maybe, that boy was right.

Maybe the bench was magic.