He had walked the same route every day for three years.
Concrete. Wall. Empty stretch of cracked pavement.
But today, there was a bench.
Old wood. Peeling paint.
As if it had always been there.
He sat without thinking.
Birds overhead. The hum of invisible music.
No one spoke to him.
No signs. No revelations.
Only the sense that something had shifted, and somehow, he had agreed.
When he stood to leave,
the bench was gone.