The Bench by the Sea

Every morning, before the sun rose, Rahim walked down to the small bench overlooking the sea.

It was old — wooden, cracked, and half-covered in salt stains. But it was their bench.

His and Leila’s.

They used to come here every weekend before she passed — coffee in paper cups, laughter tangled in the wind, her head on his shoulder while the waves crashed below.

Now, Rahim came alone.

He never missed a morning, no matter the weather. The fisherman knew him by sight — the quiet man who sat on the bench with a thermos and faraway eyes.

He’d sit there until the sun burned through the horizon, then whisper, “Good morning, Leila,” before heading home.

It was his ritual — his small peace.

One windy morning, as he sat with his thermos steaming in his hands, he heard a voice behind him.

“Excuse me, sir,” a young woman said softly. “Do you mind if I sit?”

Rahim turned. She looked about twenty — holding a notebook and wearing headphones around her neck.

He nodded, a little hesitant. “Of course.”

She smiled gratefully and sat down. For a few minutes, they said nothing. The waves roared, the seagulls cried, and the morning wind brushed against them.

Then she asked, “Do you come here every day?”

Rahim smiled faintly. “Yes. It’s quiet here.”

She nodded. “I’m trying to finish a song. I come here to write. It feels… peaceful.”

He chuckled softly. “That’s what I like about it too.”

Over the next few mornings, she returned.

Always around the same time. Always carrying her notebook.

Her name was Noor.

She was a music student, new in town, staying with her aunt nearby.

At first, their conversations were short — a greeting, a nod, a few words about the weather. But slowly, she began to ask about the sea, about the bench, about why he came here every day.

He never told her at first. Some memories were too delicate to touch.

Until one day, when the sky turned gold and the tide was low, he said quietly,

“My wife used to sit here with me. She loved the sound of waves. Said it was the only sound that made her feel safe.”

Noor listened silently.

After a long pause, she said softly, “Maybe she still does.”

Rahim looked at her — the kindness in her voice caught him off guard. He smiled for the first time in weeks.

The next morning, Noor wasn’t there.

And the morning after that, she wasn’t there either.

Rahim tried not to notice, but the bench felt emptier.

He realized how much the quiet had changed — how her presence had softened it.

Then one day, he found something resting on the bench.

A small envelope, taped to the wood.

His name was written on it in neat, looping handwriting.

He opened it.

Dear Rahim,

Thank you for sharing your mornings with me. I had to leave suddenly — my aunt fell ill in another city.

You once said the sea brings peace. I think you bring it too. There’s something about the way you sit here — like you’re talking to someone the rest of us can’t see.

You reminded me that peace doesn’t mean forgetting. It means remembering gently.

I finished my song. I called it “The Bench by the Sea.” I hope someday you’ll hear it.

— Noor

Rahim held the letter for a long time, the sound of waves filling the silence.

He didn’t cry — he just smiled.

Then he placed the letter beside his thermos and whispered,

“She was right, Leila. Peace doesn’t mean forgetting.”

Weeks passed.

Life moved gently, like the tide.

Rahim still came to the bench every morning — but now, he brought two paper cups of coffee again. One for himself.

One for Leila.

He spoke to her softly, sometimes humming a tune he didn’t realize he’d learned — the melody Noor had once sung quietly while writing her song.

And on mornings when the sea was calm, it almost felt like Leila was listening — through the waves, the wind, the space between memory and peace.

One day, a stranger stopped by the bench and sat beside him.

He was holding a phone, playing a song through small speakers.

It was soft. Gentle. Familiar.

The song’s name flashed on the screen: “The Bench by the Sea” — by Noor A.

Rahim closed his eyes and smiled. The melody danced with the wind.

He whispered, “Good morning, Leila.”

And for the first time in years, it didn’t hurt to say it.

It simply felt… peaceful.