"The Bench by Willow Lake"

I still remember the exact spot where she used to sit.

Every morning at seven, she’d arrive at the bench by Willow Lake—always with her coffee in a chipped white mug, the one with a tiny bluebird painted on the side. I never asked her name. We were just two strangers bound by routine and silence, yet in those quiet mornings, we became something more—two souls stitched loosely by time and presence.

Now the bench is empty.

At first, I thought she might be late. It happens. But when the clock ticked past 7:30, I began to feel the first strange tug of absence. That was six weeks ago.

Her name, as I later learned from the librarian, was Marianne. She was 68, lived alone in the brick cottage near the post office, and used to be a music teacher. The librarian said it like she was reading a grocery list—no emotion, just facts. I remember nodding like it made sense, but truthfully, it didn’t. How could someone so present just vanish like mist?

I keep going to the lake every morning. I bring my coffee in a travel mug—nothing fancy—and I sit where she used to sit. The ducks still glide across the surface, and the sun still breaks through the same patch of pine trees at precisely 7:12. Nature doesn’t notice when someone is missing. People do.

It’s funny how we don’t realize someone’s importance until they’re gone. Marianne never said much. Sometimes, she’d hum softly—snippets of old songs I didn’t recognize but always found comforting. Once, I asked her if she was a singer, and she smiled—not with her lips, but with her eyes—and said, “Not anymore, but the music never leaves you.”

I wish I had asked more. Asked anything, really.

The police said there was no sign of foul play. Just a woman who never came home one day. Her back door was unlocked. Her coat still hung by the hook. A slice of bread left in the toaster. People don’t just disappear—but somehow, she did.

Some say she moved away. Others say she walked into the woods and never came out. I don’t believe either. I think she simply left. Not in a morbid way—just... moved on, like the tide does when no one’s watching. Maybe she got tired of waiting for someone to ask her name.

The town didn’t hold a memorial. No candles, no vigil, no photographs taped to lampposts. Just a hushed ripple of gossip that faded as quickly as it came. I hate that. I hate that the world doesn’t pause for people like Marianne. But I do. I pause every morning, coffee in hand, and I remember.

Last Tuesday, I found something tucked beneath the bench. A folded piece of sheet music, yellowed at the edges. No name on it, but the handwriting was delicate and careful—each note drawn with love. I took it to the librarian, who confirmed it was Marianne’s. “She used to compose little melodies,” she said. “Gave them away like bookmarks.”

I’m not sure why, but I framed that music and hung it by my kitchen window. I don’t even read music, but sometimes when the wind moves through the house just right, I swear I can hear it—the faintest tune, like humming.

Sometimes I wonder if she’s watching. Not in a ghostly way, but in the way someone hopes they’re remembered. I wonder if she knows someone noticed her absence. That someone misses her. Because I do.

I miss her quiet presence. Her coffee. Her music. I miss the feeling of knowing someone would always be there, even if we never exchanged more than a few words.

It’s strange to miss someone you barely knew. But then again, maybe that’s the purest kind of missing—uncomplicated by expectation, memory untainted by disappointment. Just a presence, gone.

Tomorrow, I’ll be back at the bench. I’ll bring two coffees—one in my mug, and one in a chipped white one I found at a thrift store. I’ll set it beside me and hum a melody I don't quite remember.

Maybe she’ll hear it. Maybe she’s still listening.