The park became theirs.
Not by ownership, not by claim, but by memory.
Every evening, as the world grew quieter, they would return to the same weathered bench. At first, it was small talk fragments of their lives they dared to share, bits and pieces like puzzle pieces scattered on the ground. But as the days turned into weeks, the puzzle began to take shape.
Three Weeks Later
The air grew cooler, the first signs of autumn brushing against the edges of summer. The leaves above their bench began to yellow, drifting lazily to the ground. She arrived one evening with a book tucked under her arm.
"You read?" he asked, pretending to be surprised.
"Better than staring at the ground," she teased lightly, her voice carrying more warmth than it had when they first met. She handed the book to him, a well-worn novel with folded corners. "This one saved me once. Maybe it'll save you, too."
He didn't say much, but he held the book carefully, like it was something sacred because it had once touched her hands.
Two Months Later
Winter crept into the city, soft and biting. Their bench became dusted with frost, and still, they sat there. He would bring a thermos of coffee, sometimes tea, and she'd wrap her hands around the warm metal, pretending not to notice how he always let her take the first sip.
They talked about dreams that felt too big to say out loud. She admitted she wanted to leave the city someday, find a place where the stars weren't drowned by streetlamps. He confessed he never pictured a future at all until she sat beside him.
Sometimes, they laughed so hard the cold air stung their lungs. Other nights, they said nothing, simply leaning back against the bench, breathing in the same silence.
Six Months Later
Spring returned, and with it came color. Flowers pushed through the soil, and laughter filled the park again. They had grown comfortable enough that their silences no longer felt like pauses they were just another kind of conversation.
One evening, she brought a small paper bag. Inside was a sandwich cut in two. "Don't say I never share anything with you," she said with a grin.
He smiled, taking half. "This is dangerous. Now I'll expect dinner every night."
She rolled her eyes, but he caught the flicker of amusement, the way her face softened when she realized she liked the thought more than she wanted to admit.
One Year Later
The bench had become a part of their story, its wood weathered but still holding strong, much like the two who returned to it night after night.
They had seen each other's bad days now the quiet storms, the restless nights, the weight of sadness that still came and went. But they had also seen the laughter, the ease, the small joys that grew in the spaces between.
One night, as the lamps lit the familiar glow across the pathways, he turned to her with the same nervous smile he had worn the very first day.
"You know," he said, voice low, "I wasn't joking back then."
She looked at him, puzzled. "About what?"
"About growing old with you." His eyes searched hers, steady now, no trace of hesitation. "I still mean it."
For a long moment, she didn't speak. Then she reached for his hand, her fingers slipping into his like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Then," she whispered, "I guess I'll stay."