The Bench by the Lake

Every evening, just before sunset, an old man named Dev would walk slowly to the lake that shimmered at the edge of the town. There, under a flowering gulmohar tree, was a wooden bench — weathered, but strong.

He would sit, gaze at the golden water, and talk. Not loudly. Just soft whispers to the air beside him.

People often passed by, some curious, some pitying. “He’s talking to no one,” they would say.

But Dev knew better.

That bench was where he had first met Meera.

She was laughter in human form — her eyes full of stories, her voice a soft melody. They had spent a lifetime together. Mornings filled with chai and newspaper debates. Afternoons of gardening and humming old songs. And evenings… always at the lake.

Even after she was gone, Dev never stopped coming.

One day, a little girl who often passed by with her mother stopped and asked, “Uncle, why do you come here alone?”

He smiled gently and said, “I’m not alone. I come to meet someone who never really left.”

The girl tilted her head. “But there’s no one here.”

Dev looked at the bench, touched the spot next to him, and whispered, “Love doesn't need to be seen to be felt.”

As the sun dipped below the horizon, the sky blushed in hues of orange and pink — Meera’s favorite colors.

And for a brief moment, Dev swore he felt a hand slip into his.

Not all love stories are loud. Some live on in silence, in whispers, in empty benches, and in hearts that remember.