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Tio Sage
I am a copywriter and digital marketer. @ Adekunle Ajasin University
Lagos, Nigeria
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The Bench by the Lake
<p><span style="background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family: "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">Every Sunday at 4:00 PM, Clara sat on the old wooden bench by the lake, the one with the peeling white paint and initials carved into its side. She always brought a thermos of tea, two cups, and a small notebook.</span></p><p><br></p><p>The town had grown used to the sight of her—long gray hair tied back in a loose braid, scarf fluttering in the wind, eyes fixed on the still water like it held a secret she was waiting to hear again.</p><p><br></p><p>No one ever sat in the space beside her, but she always poured two cups. One for herself, and one for Jacob.</p><p><br></p><p>Jacob had died five years ago.</p><p><br></p><p>They had met at this very lake in the spring of 1974. She was sketching cattails in her notebook. He was feeding ducks with breadcrumbs and humming a song she'd later learn he wrote for her.</p><p><br></p><p>He asked her to share her bench. She offered half a sandwich. They talked for four hours.</p><p><br></p><p>They married two years later.</p><p><br></p><p>Every Sunday, they’d return—sometimes with kids, sometimes alone. They’d laugh about the teenagers kissing under the oaks or count how many boats drifted by. They marked anniversaries there. Said nothing when words failed. Watched the sun slide down the water like it, too, was falling in love.</p><p><br></p><p>And now, Clara came alone.</p><p><br></p><p>Except she wasn’t really alone. Not in her heart. The bench still remembered. The water still whispered his name.</p><p><br></p><p>In her notebook, she’d started writing to him.</p><p><br></p><p>> “Jacob, the lilies are late this year. Maybe you’d say it’s the weather. Maybe you’d say it’s just life. Either way, I still wait.”</p><p><br></p><p>The townsfolk didn’t disturb her. Some thought it was sad. Others thought it was beautiful.</p><p><br></p><p>And every now and then, a stranger walking by would glance at the bench—and swear, for just a second, they saw a man sitting beside her. Smiling. Humming softly.</p><p><br></p>
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