Prelude: The Empty Bench
On a quiet street, beneath the whispering trees, There stood a bench, worn by countless knees. A place of waiting, of passing, of chance, Where strangers paused in life’s fleeting dance.
No one knew the stories it held, The secrets of lovers, the tales it spelled. Wooden slats carved by time’s embrace, A silent witness to the human race.
And there, one...
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