Grief and Greenpark by Sofia Miasoiedova

It was the kind of autumn afternoon

that looked like it had been painted with watercolours. Thin sunlight filtered through thinning leaves, and a breeze swept through Green-park, stirring old memories from the trees.

Harold came to the bench every Sunday.

It was Nora’s bench, really. She loved the ducks. He never quite saw the appeal, but now it gave him something to do, someone to remember.

He sat down slowly, easing his knees into place, and let the rustle of the world fill in the blanks his thoughts left behind.

About ten minutes in, a teenager wandered toward the bench.

Hood up, earbuds in. Long shadows under his eyes. Harold recognized the look—not of delinquency, but of sorrow camouflaged in silence.

The boy sat at the far end. They said nothing at first. The ducks quacked and jostled, unaware.

Harold: "Cold for just a hoodie, isn't it?"

The boy pulled one earbud out. Looked sideways.

Boy: "I’m fine."

Harold: "Suit yourself."

They sat like bookends on a shelf—two generations apart, bound by something unwritten between them.

Harold: "You got a name, son?"

Boy: "Milo."

Harold: "Harold. Used to come here every Sunday with my wife. Been doing it alone now. Well... not quite alone anymore. These ducks are greedy company."

Milo: "Guess they don’t have much else going on."

Harold: "That’s the thing. Neither do I."

Pause.

Milo: "I don’t come here much. Just… ended up here today."

Harold: "You lost someone?"

Milo flinched, like the question had slipped under his skin.

Milo: "Yeah. My mom. A year ago last Tuesday."

Harold didn’t rush to speak.

Harold: "Nora—my wife—used to say grief is a kind of storm. You think it’s passed, then the wind changes. Back it comes."

Milo: "Some days I feel like I’m still in the middle of it. Like it’s raining and everyone else has an umbrella I don’t."

Harold: "That’s a good way of putting it. You write?"

Milo: "Used to. I stopped when… you know. It felt fake."

Harold: "Milo, listen. Pain can make liars of us, sure. But sometimes it makes poets too. You don’t have to write to be fine. But you might write to remember."

Milo looked at him sharply, like he wasn’t used to being seen so clearly.

Milo: "You always come here alone?"

Harold: "These days, yes. But it’s not loneliness when you’re remembering someone. It’s visiting."

Milo: "I think I stopped remembering her properly. Like… I’m afraid I’ll forget her voice. Or her laugh."

Harold: "You won’t. Trust me. They live in odd places after they’re gone. In a certain smell. A song. In your hands when you stir soup a certain way. One day you’ll be brushing your teeth and start crying for no reason. But it won’t be for no reason. It’ll be her."

A pause. The wind stirred the leaves again.

Milo: "You always talk like this?"

Harold: "Only on Sundays."

They sat there, not needing to speak for a few minutes.

Milo pulled out a pack of bread he hadn’t touched.

Milo: "I brought this… didn’t know why. Maybe for the ducks."

He handed it to Harold, who nodded gratefully and began tossing small bits into the pond. The ducks scrambled and squawked.

Harold: "You know, I think she’d like that you came here. Your mom."

Milo: "Yeah. She would. She hated being forgotten."

Harold: "Then let’s not forget her. Tell me about her."

Milo hesitated, then said:

Milo: "She used to sing when she cooked. Off-key, badly. But like she didn’t care. And she had this ugly green mug she always drank tea from. Said it tasted better in it."

Harold chuckled.

Harold: "Nora had a red scarf she wore every winter, even when it didn’t match. Claimed it kept her heart warm, not just her neck."

They told stories until the shadows stretched long and the air turned sharper.

As Milo stood to leave, he looked at Harold with something close to softness.

Milo: "I might come next Sunday. If that’s okay."

Harold: "I’d like that. Bring more bread. And stories."

Milo walked off, hoodie bouncing lightly with each step.

Harold watched him go.

Then he looked out over the pond and whispered:

Harold: "You were right, Nora. Talking does heal. Even if it takes a stranger to start."

The wind swirled the last of the leaves from the tree above, and the bench waited quietly for next Sunday.