The bench by hospital.
Every morning at exactly 8:00 AM, an old man named Faizan would walk slowly down the same cracked pavement toward the city hospital. He carried a faded brown coat over one arm and a small, worn-out book tucked gently beneath the other. Rain or shine, summer or frost, he would arrive, take his seat on the wooden bench just outside the hospital entrance, and sit silently—watching, waiting, remembering.
