"The Fifth Bench" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
Nathan never meant to find the park. It revealed itself one night when the noise of the city had become too much—the honks, the sirens, the drunken laughter trailing from rooftop bars. He’d turned down an unfamiliar street and there it was: a wrought-iron gate cracked open just enough, as if waiting for him. A sliver of green amid the steel and concrete.
He stepped inside.
It wasn’t the kind of park anyone talked about. There were no signs, no playgrounds, no joggers with earbuds. The lamps glowed with a golden softness, casting halos that didn’t reach the ground. Vines crawled along old stone walls. The air smelled of lilacs, even though it was November.
He found a bench—a fifth one, counting from the gate—and sat. A flicker of something stirred in his chest, though he couldn’t name it.
He didn’t go home right away.
That first night began a quiet ritual. Each evening, sometime after dinner but before the hour turned strange, he’d walk there. The city blurred behind him the moment he crossed the threshold. On the fifth bench, he’d sit, breathe, and listen to the world soften.
It was on the seventh visit that the man appeared.
He wasn’t there… and then he was. No sound of footsteps. No rustle of leaves. Just presence. A man, perhaps in his forties, though ageless in that way certain people are. He wore a long charcoal coat and held a ceramic mug in his gloved hands. Steam curled upward like a whispered secret.
“Cold night,” the man said.
Nathan nodded.
They didn’t speak again that evening. But the silence wasn’t awkward. It was companionable, somehow, like listening to a song you’ve never heard but already know by heart.
He was there again the next night.
And the one after.
They began to talk. Not about the usual things. Not jobs or politics or weather. But about dreams, and rivers, and how the city sometimes feels like it’s breathing around you. The man’s name, he said, was Carlo. He never offered a last name. Nathan never asked.
“You seem familiar,” Nathan said once, surprising even himself.
Carlo smiled, something wistful in the corners of his mouth. “I’ve been told that.”
On the fifteenth night, Carlo brought a second mug. Chamomile. Light honey. Nathan sipped, grateful for the warmth—and something more.
It was subtle, whatever passed between them. Not flirtation, exactly. But tenderness. The kind that needs no performance. That simply is.
Then one evening, Carlo didn’t appear.
Nathan waited.
The wind rattled the bare branches above. The bench felt colder than usual. He stayed past midnight, until the golden lamps blinked out one by one and he was left in silence.
The next night, he returned.
Still no Carlo.
And then, as he stood to leave, he heard it—his name. Spoken gently, almost like a breath. Nathan.
He turned.
No one.
Only a ripple in the air, like a memory moving through water.
He sat again. Closed his eyes. Tried to still his thoughts.
A vision surfaced—soft and sudden. A summer decades ago. Two young men in the sun, barefoot on warm grass. Laughter. A kiss shared beneath a rustling canopy of leaves. A fall. A hospital. A call unanswered. A name: Carlo.
How had he forgotten?
No. Not forgotten. Buried.
When he opened his eyes, the world shimmered.
And Carlo was there.
Not across the bench. But beside him. Close.
Real?
Nathan didn’t speak. He was afraid to.
Carlo reached out. His hand touched Nathan’s—warm, solid.
“You remembered,” Carlo said. “That’s all I needed.”
The city hummed beyond the park, unaware. Traffic lights blinked. Elevators climbed and fell. Somewhere, a dog barked at nothing.
But on the fifth bench in a forgotten park, two men sat beneath bare branches. Together, once more.
And the moment held.
~Wylddane
He stepped inside.
It wasn’t the kind of park anyone talked about. There were no signs, no playgrounds, no joggers with earbuds. The lamps glowed with a golden softness, casting halos that didn’t reach the ground. Vines crawled along old stone walls. The air smelled of lilacs, even though it was November.
He found a bench—a fifth one, counting from the gate—and sat. A flicker of something stirred in his chest, though he couldn’t name it.
He didn’t go home right away.
That first night began a quiet ritual. Each evening, sometime after dinner but before the hour turned strange, he’d walk there. The city blurred behind him the moment he crossed the threshold. On the fifth bench, he’d sit, breathe, and listen to the world soften.
It was on the seventh visit that the man appeared.
He wasn’t there… and then he was. No sound of footsteps. No rustle of leaves. Just presence. A man, perhaps in his forties, though ageless in that way certain people are. He wore a long charcoal coat and held a ceramic mug in his gloved hands. Steam curled upward like a whispered secret.
“Cold night,” the man said.
Nathan nodded.
They didn’t speak again that evening. But the silence wasn’t awkward. It was companionable, somehow, like listening to a song you’ve never heard but already know by heart.
He was there again the next night.
And the one after.
They began to talk. Not about the usual things. Not jobs or politics or weather. But about dreams, and rivers, and how the city sometimes feels like it’s breathing around you. The man’s name, he said, was Carlo. He never offered a last name. Nathan never asked.
“You seem familiar,” Nathan said once, surprising even himself.
Carlo smiled, something wistful in the corners of his mouth. “I’ve been told that.”
On the fifteenth night, Carlo brought a second mug. Chamomile. Light honey. Nathan sipped, grateful for the warmth—and something more.
It was subtle, whatever passed between them. Not flirtation, exactly. But tenderness. The kind that needs no performance. That simply is.
Then one evening, Carlo didn’t appear.
Nathan waited.
The wind rattled the bare branches above. The bench felt colder than usual. He stayed past midnight, until the golden lamps blinked out one by one and he was left in silence.
The next night, he returned.
Still no Carlo.
And then, as he stood to leave, he heard it—his name. Spoken gently, almost like a breath. Nathan.
He turned.
No one.
Only a ripple in the air, like a memory moving through water.
He sat again. Closed his eyes. Tried to still his thoughts.
A vision surfaced—soft and sudden. A summer decades ago. Two young men in the sun, barefoot on warm grass. Laughter. A kiss shared beneath a rustling canopy of leaves. A fall. A hospital. A call unanswered. A name: Carlo.
How had he forgotten?
No. Not forgotten. Buried.
When he opened his eyes, the world shimmered.
And Carlo was there.
Not across the bench. But beside him. Close.
Real?
Nathan didn’t speak. He was afraid to.
Carlo reached out. His hand touched Nathan’s—warm, solid.
“You remembered,” Carlo said. “That’s all I needed.”
The city hummed beyond the park, unaware. Traffic lights blinked. Elevators climbed and fell. Somewhere, a dog barked at nothing.
But on the fifth bench in a forgotten park, two men sat beneath bare branches. Together, once more.
And the moment held.
~Wylddane
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