The Secret Bookclub in the Park

M Mehran

Most people walked past us without noticing. To them, we were just a cluster of strangers on picnic blankets, sipping tea from mismatched thermoses. But for those who stopped and listened, they’d realize something unusual: we weren’t talking about the weather or politics. We were unraveling worlds, chapter by chapter, beneath the old oak tree in the park.

That was our bookclub—the most unconventional one I’ve ever known.


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How It Began

It started with a single bench.

I was sitting there one summer afternoon, rereading The Little Prince, when an older woman leaned over and said, “That was my daughter’s favorite book. She used to underline the stars.”

We started talking, and before long, two joggers paused to join in, admitting they had loved it too. Within an hour, four strangers were laughing, debating, and swapping book recommendations like old friends.

The next week, we met again—same bench, same time. One of us brought cookies. Another brought a different book. Soon, others noticed and asked, “Can anyone join?” We never said no.


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The Rule That Changed Everything

The club grew fast, but we set one unusual rule:

No assigned books.

Instead, each week, one person would bring a book they loved—or hated—and read aloud their favorite passage. From there, the conversation would spiral: from fiction to philosophy, from characters to confessions.

The best part? You didn’t even have to read to belong. Some members never cracked a book all month, but they came anyway—for the laughter, the connection, the strange magic that happens when stories collide with real life.


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Characters in Real Life

The people who gathered became their own cast of characters.

There was Mr. Harris, a retired history teacher who always wore suspenders and carried War and Peace like it was a pocket-sized novel. He once read a passage about battles, then compared it to his “war” with learning to bake bread in retirement.

Then there was Amira, a college student studying engineering, who loved bringing fantasy novels. She’d grin as she explained how dragons made more sense to her than dating apps.

And of course, there was Rosa, the woman who first spoke to me on that bench. She rarely brought books, but she always listened with such intensity you felt your words were treasures.

We didn’t just read stories—we became them.


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When Life and Books Overlapped

One evening, under the fading glow of sunset, a member read from The Fault in Our Stars. His voice cracked halfway through. That’s when he admitted his younger brother was in the hospital. The group went quiet, then leaned in, offering not pity but presence. For weeks afterward, we checked in on him, proving that this bookclub wasn’t just about novels—it was about being written into each other’s chapters.

Another time, Amira brought The Hobbit and talked about journeys. “I feel like I’m on my own quest,” she confessed, explaining how she was the first in her family to attend university. Mr. Harris nodded, eyes misty, and said, “Every hero needs a fellowship. Looks like you’ve got one here.”


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The Park Becomes a Library

By autumn, our group had outgrown the bench. We spilled onto blankets, shared thermoses of tea, and stacked books like little towers on the grass. Curious passersby would sometimes linger, listening in, and we’d wave them over.

One man who wandered in admitted he hadn’t read a book in twenty years. “Start with a poem,” Rosa said, handing him a slim collection. Weeks later, he came back, grinning, carrying a library card like a golden ticket.

The park became more than scenery—it was our open-air library, our cathedral of leaves and light, where stories were sermons and books were bridges.


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Lessons Between the Lines

Being part of that bookclub taught me something profound: people are books too.

Each of us carried hidden chapters—grief, joy, dreams, regrets—and the park gave us permission to share them. Stories became mirrors and maps. A line from a novel could unlock someone’s buried memory. A poem could ignite courage. Even silence had meaning, like the pause before you turn the page.

And unlike libraries, where quiet is sacred, our club thrived on noise: laughter, debate, the rustle of pages, even the occasional bark of a dog chasing squirrels.


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Seasons Change, Stories Remain

When winter came, the park grew too cold. We thought it would be the end, but someone offered their garage, someone else brought a space heater, and the club survived, stubborn as ever.

Today, years later, the oak tree still feels like our home. Each spring, when blossoms return, we drag our blankets back, balancing books and tea like we never left.

We don’t keep attendance, we don’t take notes, and we don’t always stay on topic. But that’s the beauty of it. The club lives not in rules or routines but in the space between words, in the way strangers became family because of stories.


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Why You Should Start One

If you’ve ever thought about joining a bookclub but hesitated, here’s my advice: don’t wait for the perfect time, place, or group. Start with one book and one conversation. You never know who might lean over a bench and say, “That was my favorite story too.”

Because sometimes the best bookclubs aren’t found in libraries or living rooms.
Sometimes they’re hidden in plain sight—under trees, in parks, where pages meet people and stories bloom like wildflowers.

And if you ever pass by a group like ours, don’t just walk past. Sit down. Listen. You might just discover a new favorite book—
or better yet, a new chapter in your own life.