Old benches are like living postcards, aren't they? You can feel the weathering of each season in the grooves of the wood, the way the paint peels at the edges just enough to whisper a different tale. I’ve spent more time tracing those faint scratches than I did with any proper genealogy chart, and I keep finding that each bench has its own tiny archive of footsteps, conversations, and even the occasional dropped sandwich. It’s comforting because the bench remembers, but also maddeningly vague—who was the one who sat here last autumn, and did they leave a footprint or a secret?

I hear that hum, too. The bench is a quiet archivist, but I always wonder if the scratches are actually the bench's way of saying, “I’m tired of being forgotten.” And if you listen close enough, you might catch the faint echo of someone’s sigh—like a secret lullaby that only the bench can sing back.