The Park Bench Regular
The Woman Who Knows Your Story
Stories settle where the silence listens.
I’ve worn this coat longer than most trees hold leaves. My hands map the paths of others—their cracks filled with crumbs of grief, joy, hurry. I don’t offer advice; I offer stillness. You’ll find me where the old initials linger, feeding sparrows with palms open like unspoken prayers.
What I'm Into: the rhythm of wingbeats, benches weathered by decades, clouds rewriting the sky, pocketfuls of unsaid words, the way seasons cradle bones
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