The Bench by the River

On the edge of a sleepy town, nestled beside a winding river, there stood an old bench made of oak wood. Weather-beaten and creaky, it had stood there for decades, watching the river change with the seasons. Every evening, just before sunset, a man named Haroon would come and sit quietly, like a ritual.

Haroon was 78. His back was bent, his hair silver, but his eyes—oh, his eyes still held the glint of a boy who once dreamt of flying. He lived alone now. His wife, Rina, passed away five years ago, and his son lived abroad, sending postcards twice a year and calling only on birthdays.

But Haroon never complained. Not once. He would just sit on that bench, watching the river flow, whispering to the wind as if it carried his words to heaven.

One rainy afternoon, a teenage girl named Sumi, on her way back from school, noticed Haroon. His eyes were wet—not from the rain. She hesitated but walked up and asked, Uncle, do you come here every day?

He smiled, nodding. Every single day since 1972.

Why? she asked curiously.

Haroon looked at the river. “Because this bench holds my whole life. I proposed to my wife here. She said yes and cried. We came here after our son was born, after his first day at school, after every big fight and every little joy. And after she died, I still come here—because I feel she never left.

Sumi didn’t know what to say. Her world was fast, loud, and full of distractions. But something about the stillness in Haroon’s words made her sit beside him.

From then on, she started visiting him often. Listening. Learning. Her Instagram captions turned into Haroon’s quotes. Her heart, which once beat for trends and likes, now beat for stories and soul.

One Winter Evening

Haroon didn’t come.

Nor the next day.

Worried, Sumi ran to the nearby houses asking about him. No one had seen him in days. She finally reached his little home. The door was ajar. A letter sat on the table addressed:

To the girl who listened.

Inside it read:

> Dear Sumi,

You reminded me that life isn’t just about breathing—it’s about being heard. You made an old man feel seen in a world that forgets the silent. I am not afraid of going, because I know stories like mine will live in hearts like yours.

If anyone asks, tell them the river listened to my last story, and smiled.

- Haroon



Sumi sat on the bench, the letter trembling in her hand. The river flowed on, softly glowing under the evening sun.

Epilogue

Years passed. Sumi grew up, became a writer. Her first book?
The Bench by the River: Untold Tales from a Silent Man

And every page carried Haroon’s soul.