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This episode is brought to you by a classic yellow raincoat. Tonight, we'll read a snooze cast original, the empty bench. A hidden bench by a quiet grove offers an otherworldly sense of stillness to those who find it, creating an inexplicable connection to time and place. The experienced lingers, drawing one back to witness the subtleties of its magic, and the profound calm it offers. Let's get cozy. Close your eyes. Relax your body into the softness of your bed. Now, take a few deep breaths. There's a bench by a pond in the park. The pond is hidden in a grove, surrounded by trees whose branches intertwine like glass pans, creating a natural barrier that shelters the water from view. the kind of place you wouldn't know was there unless someone told you, and even then you might forget the directions. Now the bench itself wasn't remarkable. The wood was weathered, and a little rough to the touch. The iron legs scuffed and speckled with rust. It didn't have ornate carvings or commemorative plaque. It wasn't painted or polished. It wasn't particularly comfortable looking either, just the kind of bench you'd pass by without a second glance in any other park. What made it different though was that it was never, ever, empty. You found the pond by accident. Feeling overwhelmed by work, you had taken the day off and decided to go for a stroll. were chasing a stray balloon for no good reason. One of those cheap ones from a party store, half filled with helium, so it floated at just about head height. It bobbed and swayed lazily, always just out of reach, as if leading you somewhere on purpose. It led you off the main trail and through a thicket of bushes. When you pushed past the last branch, you saw the water. The surface was calm, only disturbed by the occasional ripple of a fish or the light plunk of a duck diving under. And there, right at the edge, was the bench. You thought it looked like a fine bench, as far as standard looking benches go. You were in the mood for a sit. Maybe you watched the ducks for a while. Maybe just think about nothing at all. But someone was already there. An old man in a flat cap sat hunched forward. His hands folded on a cane in front of him. He wasn't looking at the ducks or the water. He was just staring ahead, like he was waiting for something. You didn't want to bother him, so you sat on a rock nearby and waited for him to leave. After a while, your legs got sore. The old man didn't move. The sun was starting to dip behind the trees and you had to head home for dinner. The next day it was the weekend, and after you finished folding your laundry, your thoughts returned to the bench, and you decided to go back to the pond. You thought maybe the old man wouldn't be there, but when you arrived, someone else was on the bench. A woman with coppery red hair and a yellow raincoat, even though it wasn't raining. She had her head tilted back, her eyes closed, like she was soaking in the quiet. You hovered at the edge of the grove, unsure what to do. You didn't want to interrupt. You waited again, sitting on the same rock, watching the same bench. You checked your watch after some time. Two hours had passed. She hadn't left. On your walk home, you tried to remember if she even moved. You weren't sure. This went on for weeks. You started going to the pond every day after work and every weekend. You never saw the same person twice in a row, but there was always someone. One day it was a middle-aged woman. Her hands resting on a partially knitted red scarf. The needles were still. Crossed in her lap as though she had paused mid-row to enjoy the view. Her gaze was steady, fixed on the

pond, but not in the way someone watches. It felt more like she was simply taking it all in, letting the moment linger. Another time, a man in a charcoal suit occupied the bench. His tie slightly loosened as though he had just left work. His hands were folded neatly on his knees, and his eyes were directed at the trees lining

the pond. Their shifting leaves reflected faintly in his glasses. He seemed comfortable, content, but there was something deliberate about the way he sat, as if he'd chosen that spot for more than just a break. On yet another visit, a woman with soft grey curls beneath a wide brimmed hat was there, her face serene, and her hands resting lightly on an open book. Though the breeze occasionally lifted the corner of a page, she didn't seem to notice. Her focus was somewhere far beyond the words in front of her. Her presence quiet, but somehow heavy, like a stone perfectly placed in the current. You tried to figure it out. How could the bench always have someone on it? You never saw anyone walk up or leave. It was like they just appeared. You started coming earlier, hoping to catch the moment the bench was empty. But every time you arrived, it was already occupied. You even lingered late one evening, long enough for the park to dissolve into shadows, the grove thickening with a quiet that pressed against your ears. The person on the bench, a teenager with headphones, hadn't budged an inch. Then one day it happened the bench was empty. Your breath caught. You froze at the edge of the grove, staring at the empty wood and iron, half expecting someone to appear out of thin air. But no one did. The bench stayed empty, waiting. You stepped forward cautiously. sneakers crunching on the gravel path. When you reached the bench, you hesitated. It felt almost wrong to sit down, like you were breaking some unspoken rule. But you'd waited so long.

You sat.

The first thing you noticed was the quiet.

The grove was never loud.

But there were always sounds, birds chirping, ducks cracking, the

rustle of leaves in the breeze. Now, those sounds hadn't disappeared, but they were muffled, like distant echoes, playing in slow motion. The ducks on the pond paddled so sluggishly, it was hard to tell they were moving at all. Ripple spread across the water in lazy circles, as though the pond itself had forgotten its usual rhythm. A single leaf drifted downward at a pace so unhurried, you could have sworn it was suspended midair. You sat back, your hands gripping the edge of the bench. You felt like you should be scared, but you weren't. The slowed world wasn't eerie, it was calming, like the grove was gently holding its breath. You leaned forward, staring at the pond. Everything moved, just barely, not frozen but impossibly slow. It was like watching a dream unfold, deliberate and unhurried. You sat there for a long time. Your thoughts drifted in and out, unspooling at their own pace. You thought about how you'd been feeling like everyone else was moving faster than you could keep up. The weight of those thoughts felt lighter here, stretched thin like the air around you. For the first time in a while, you didn't feel rushed. just sat, letting the grove and the bench cradle your thoughts until they settled. After what felt like hours, you realized something odd. The stillness wasn't and just in the grove, it was inside you. Your heart wasn't pounding, your breathing was steady and deep, like you'd found a rhythm you didn't know you were missing. Everything about you felt quiet, still. You closed your eyes and tried to remember the last time you felt this way. It was harder than you you're expected. When you finally opened your eyes, the grove looked different. It wasn't just the slow movement of the world around you. The light had shifted, soft and golden, the kind of light that made everything feel weightless. You wondered if ours had passed, or if this was simply part of the bench's magic, if that's what it was. Standing up felt like breaking a spell. The moment you lifted yourself from the bench, the world began to regain its usual pace. The ducks paddling smoothed down. The ripples quickened, and the leaf you'd been watching finally settled on the ground. The rustle of leaves returned to its familiar cadence, and the faint home of the park reached your ears again. You took a deep breath, your head feeling clearer than it had in weeks.

As you turned, you noticed someone walking toward the grove. It was the old man with the flat cap. He stopped a few feet away and gave you a small nod. So now you know the secret, I suppose. I suppose you said, but how he replied. With this sort of thing, I find it best not to ask too many questions. You paused. But aren't you worried about, I don't know, everyone finding it? Well, if you're asking me, the old man said. I think the bench finds who needs to be found. You thought about this for a moment. You ask him eventually, did you end up chasing a half inflated balloon through the grove as well? He chuckled, no, my friend. For me, I was following a raccoon with a hot dog. He shuffled past you and sat down on the bench. You watched as everything looked normal to you, but imagined the duck's flapping slower for the old man. You wondered how long it translated. Was sitting down for 30 minutes on the bench like a day in real time? A week? A month? You turn and walked back through the thicket. Feeling like you had been let in on a secret, you weren't sure you could explain. But something about it called you back. And later that week you returned. This time you wanted to see something differently. You crouched by the pond, picking up a smooth flat rock from the water's edge. The cool weight of it felt solid, grounding. You took a breath, pulling your arm back, and let the rock fly. It skipped twice, splashed, and then you bolted for the bench. You dropped into the seat just as the ripples began to spread. The effect was immediate. The ripples slowed to a crawl. Each ring stretching out like liquid glass. You leaned forward, your heart steady, your breath calm and watched as the water shifted and impossibly measured waves. The reflection of the trees bent and swayed so gradually it felt like a whisper of movement, as though the grove itself was holding its breath. A faint shimmer hung over the pond, and you could see every detail. The tiny bubbles, the way the light fractured on the surface, the long arc of each ripple expanding in the sleigh outward. For a moment you thought you could hear it, the sound of the pond moving, the faint hum of something deeper, older, it filled your chest,

not loud but present, resonating in time with the stretch of each wave.

You don't know how long you stayed, watching the ripple stretch and fade into stillness. The stones path across the pond felt infinite, yet the effect was simple, natural, like everything here. After a long time, when the water returned to its quiet calm, used to it slowly, the bench releasing you gently, back to the normal rhythm of the world. Yn yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n yw'n y