Bench and Envelope
Hearing the shopping street bench was broken, we all carried it together. We replaced the wood screws, sanded the seat, and soaked it in oil. A passing musician kept rhythm on his guitar. When the work was done, a stranger sat down and thanked us. It wasn’t business. But something had definitely started turning.
That night, Harold handed me an envelope. “Open it if you get lost.” He wouldn’t show me what was inside. “Promise me.” He smiled and flicked the workshop keyring with his finger. Four keys. Four beats. My heart was beating at the same tempo. On the way home, the envelope felt a little heavy in my pocket.
