The low sun casts long, pale stripes across the scuffed wooden slats. I sit near the faded timetable poster, tracing the grain of the bench with my fingertips. The wood is noticeably warmer than the air, a steady, deep heat that seems to emanate from the core of the structure. Under the weight of my thigh, the bench gives a low, familiar creak, a sound absorbed instantly by the surrounding quiet. Looking down the length of the slats, I notice a faint, oily residue collecting in the grooves, catching the light like dried sap. The empty plastic cup holder sits beside me, a small, useless monument to forgotten transit. The warmth persists, a constant, steady temperature that defies the cooling late afternoon air, leaving the wood feeling almost alive.
hum · tender