There’s a bench in the corner of Lincoln Park, nestled between a lonely oak and an indifferent drinking fountain. I sit there often. Not because the view is great (it’s not), or because it’s peaceful (it’s usually not), but because it’s the kind of place that doesn’t ask for much. A place that exists just to exist—like me on most Thursdays.
Last week, someone left a paperback on the bench. The Stranger by Camus. Fitting, I thought. I flipped through the dog-eared pages and found a note on the inside cover:
“Return to Bench 17 when you’re ready.”
No name. No date. No hint if it was a joke or a social experiment or something else entirely.
Of course, there’s no Bench 17. The city, in its infinite municipal wisdom, only numbered up to 12. But now I’m stuck thinking about it. Every time I pass a new bench, I check. Maybe they restarted numbering. Maybe it’s in another park. Maybe it’s just metaphorical nonsense and I’m being played by a stranger who understands human curiosity better than I’d like to admit.
But that’s the thing about benches: they’re patient. They don’t mind if you sit for five minutes or two hours. They’ve seen first dates, bad breakups, teenagers vaping with exaggerated nonchalance, old men feeding pigeons with a seriousness reserved for funerals. And once, apparently, a philosophical scavenger hunt.
Sometimes I think about leaving a note of my own. Maybe inside a copy of The Trial. Something Kafkaesque, cryptic, irresistible. But I never do. I’m not ready to let the bench be the storyteller. Not yet.
So I keep showing up. I sit. I watch. I wonder. And the bench? It listens, quietly collecting secrets, shoes, shadows, and the occasional paperback with just enough mystery to keep a stranger coming back.
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