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Source-Pinterst |
On the edge of a quiet town, there was a lake that looked like glass in the early mornings. It reflected the sky, the trees, and sometimes, a little girl named Meera.
Meera came there every Sunday with her grandfather. They had a special bench—old, wooden, but strong. She called it their "thinking bench." He would sip his tea from a flask while she threw pebbles, waiting for the ripples to vanish.
One Sunday, she came alone.
The flask wasn’t there. The silence was louder. The bench still stood strong, but her heart felt weak. Her grandfather had passed away just a week ago, but Meera didn’t cry. She just sat.
A boy, about her age, passed by and stopped. “This seat taken?” he asked.
She shook her head. “It was... but not today.”
They both sat quietly, staring at the water. The boy had a scar on his hand. Meera had a scar on her heart.
“My dad used to bring me here too,” he whispered.
Meera looked at him. “Did he stop coming too?”
He nodded slowly.
They didn’t say much after that, but somehow, their silence spoke more than words. Two strangers, sitting side by side, connected not by stories—but by loss, and the healing power of stillness.
The lake didn’t ask questions. The bench didn’t judge. And in that moment, Meera knew: some places carry love even after the people are gone.
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Source-Pinterst |
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Sometimes, healing doesn’t come from talking—it comes from being understood, even in silence.
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