The Bench Near the Crossing
He sat on the bench the way he usually did, with his hands folded loosely in his lap and his shoulders slightly forward, as if leaning toward nothing in particular. The bench faced the road, but he was not watching the traffic. He was watching the gaps between things. The pauses when no one passed. The brief quiet before the sound returned. The bench was worn smooth in the middle. Many people had sat there. Some waited. Some rested. Some only stayed long enough to tie a shoe or check a phone. He had been coming here for weeks now, though he did not think of it as a habit. It was just a place that existed, and so he used it. The day was mild. Not warm, not cold. The kind of day that did not ask for attention. He liked that. Days like this felt easier to move through, like they did not expect much from him. People passed without looking. Shoes on pavement, bags brushing against coats, the soft rhythm of steps that did not pause. He noticed how everyone walked with a slight forward pul...