The Bench Beneath the Maple Tree

The wind was cool that afternoon, the kind of soft chill that made the world smell like wood, earth, and memories. The park was quiet—just the rustle of leaves, a few distant voices, and the rhythmic crunch of footsteps on dry ground.

Alpha, a young man from Pakistan who had recently moved abroad for work, sat on a wooden bench beneath a tall maple tree. It was his favorite spot in the park, one that reminded him of home. Every Sunday, he came here with a cup of tea, watching the world turn gold and red.

Today, though, something felt different. Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the way the sunlight hit the leaves, painting the world in shades of goodbye.

He took a slow sip of his tea, the steam rising and disappearing into the cold air. It reminded him of his mother’s chai back home — always strong, sweet, and comforting. He could almost hear her voice calling from the kitchen, “Alpha, don’t forget your jacket. You’ll catch a cold!”

He smiled faintly at the memory.

Last year, he used to come here with a friend — Emma. She was the first person he met after moving to this new country. She had an easy laugh and a way of seeing beauty in small things. She’d talk endlessly about the changing seasons, about how autumn wasn’t an ending but a beginning in disguise.

“Look at those leaves,” she once told him, tossing a handful of them into the air. “They’re dying beautifully. That’s what life should be — graceful even when it changes.”

Alpha didn’t quite understand it then. But after Emma moved away for her studies, leaving without much of a goodbye, her words stayed with him like a leaf pressed inside an old book.

Now, sitting alone beneath that same tree, he finally understood what she meant.

The world changes — people, places, even feelings. And that’s okay.

He watched a small boy run past, laughing as his mother chased him. Their joy was simple and pure, untouched by time. Alpha realized that he had been holding on to the past, afraid to let new things in. His life had become a loop of memories — of home, of friends, of moments he wished would return.

But as a gust of wind blew through the park, scattering a wave of golden leaves around him, something inside him shifted.

He bent down and picked up one of the leaves — bright red, shaped like fire frozen in motion. It was beautiful in its imperfection.

He remembered Emma’s words again: “They’re dying beautifully.”

Maybe this was what letting go looked like — not forgetting, but accepting. Not moving on, but moving forward.

He took out his phone and snapped a photo of the leaf resting on the bench. Then he opened his messages and wrote to his younger brother back home:

“You’d love this place. The trees here turn red like fire. I’ll bring you here one day.”



He smiled as he hit send. For the first time in a long while, his heart felt light.

As the sun dipped lower, the park began to glow with that golden-hour magic — everything softer, warmer, like a memory that refused to fade. Alpha sat there until the last bit of sunlight disappeared behind the trees.

Before leaving, he placed the red leaf between the pages of his notebook — a small reminder that even endings can be beautiful if we let them.

When he stood up, the world felt a little different. The air was still cool, but not lonely. The silence was still there, but it was peaceful now.

Alpha took one last look at the bench beneath the maple tree and whispered, “Thank you.”

The wind blew gently in response, carrying away the sound of his voice — but leaving behind a sense of calm.

And as he walked home, the leaves continued to fall, one by one, covering the ground like quiet goodbyes.

But this time, he didn’t feel sad. He felt ready. Ready for whatever came next — for new places, new people, and new colors of life.

Because, after all, autumn wasn’t about loss.
It was about learning to love the change.