The Bench by the Lake

Every Sunday morning, Mr. Hai came to the same bench by the lake. The wood was old and slightly curved from years of rain and sunshine, but it held a quiet comfort he couldn’t find anywhere else. He always brought two cups of tea one for himself, one for the friend who no longer came.

The ducks glided across the still water. Children’s laughter echoed faintly from the playground. Somewhere behind him, a street musician played a soft tune on a bamboo flute. The world, it seemed, hadn’t forgotten how to be gentle.

He placed the second cup of tea on the bench beside him. “You’d laugh at me for still doing this,” he murmured. “But I can’t drink alone.”

He closed his eyes, letting the wind brush against his face. He could almost hear his friend’s voice calm, teasing, full of life. They had spent decades talking about everything and nothing: football, books, the taste of old memories. Then one winter, the seat beside him went empty for good.

Still, he came every week. He told his friend about the little things the new vendor selling noodles by the bridge, the old couple who still walked hand in hand, the boy who fed the ducks. He believed that some friendships, if spoken to kindly enough, never truly left.

A small shadow fell across him. He looked up to see a teenage boy, holding a notebook and a shy smile.

“Excuse me, sir,” the boy said. “May I sit here? All the other benches are full.”

Mr. Hai nodded. “Of course.”

The boy sat down, opening his notebook. He started sketching quietly the lake, the trees, the ducks, and finally, the old man sitting beside him. “You come here often?” the boy asked without looking up.

“Every Sunday,” Mr. Hai said. “Same time, same tea.”

“That’s nice,” the boy murmured. “My grandfather used to take me here before he passed. I thought maybe if I kept coming, I’d still feel close to him.”

The old man smiled. “Then you understand.”

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the rustle of the trees. When the boy finished his sketch, he tore out a page and handed it to Mr. Hai. It showed two figures sitting on a bench one drawn in solid lines, the other faint, almost transparent, but smiling.

“It’s us,” the boy said softly. “And someone you miss.”

Mr. Hai looked at the drawing for a long time. The wind stirred the tea beside him. “You’re a good artist,” he said, his voice gentle. “You caught something real.”

The boy stood up. “See you next Sunday?”

Mr. Hai nodded. “I’ll bring an extra cup of tea.”

As the boy walked away, the old man leaned back, watching the sunlight scatter across the water. He could almost hear his friend laughing again. Maybe love, in its quietest form, was simply showing up.

The tea beside him had grown cold, but the morning had never felt warmer.