The taxi ride to the park felt longer than it should have. When they pulled up to the entrance, he sat for a moment in the back seat, holding the rose, trying to find some internal balance before stepping out.
Then he got out and walked.
The park looked exactly as it always had — the same winding paths, the same sounds carrying across from the distance, the same smell of cut grass and warm air. He walked slowly, each step heavier than it probably needed to be, the way steps get when you’re moving toward something you’ve been avoiding.
When he reached the clearing near the willow, he stopped.
The bench wasn’t empty.
