Heard
The first time Sam saw her, she was sitting on the bench like she owned it. Pale blue cardigan, paperback in her lap, and a thermos beside her. She wasn’t doing anything in particular—just watching people go by like it was the best show in town.
Sam would’ve kept walking, but his mom nudged him toward the seat.
“Just sit for ten minutes,” she said. “Get some fresh air.”
“I’m not five.”
“And I’m not asking,” she said, already heading toward the walking trail.
He sat down stiffly, guitar case bumping his knee. She turned a page in her book but didn’t look up.
“You play?” she asked.
He glanced sideways. “Yeah. Sometimes.”
“What’s your name?”
He hesitated. “Sam.”
She smiled. “June.”
There was a beat of quiet, just long enough for him to consider pulling out his phone.
Then she said, “What’s one thing you still want to do?”
Sam blinked. “What?”
“One thing you haven’t done yet. Could be anything.”
He looked away. “I dunno.” Then, after a beat: “I’m only a kid. I still gotta do everything.”
June smiled at that—genuinely, like she’d been waiting for someone to say it just like that.
That was it. No lecture. No follow-up.
When his mom returned, June stood, tucked her book under her arm, and said, “Nice to meet you, Sam.”
He didn’t mean to go back. But two days later, he found himself there again. June was already seated, a different book this time, same cardigan, same thermos.
“You again,” she said.
“I had nothing else to do.”
She poured a cup of something warm and handed it over.
“I’m good,” Sam said.
“It’s not coffee,” she replied. “It’s tea. Raspberry something. You’ll survive.”
He took it and held it, more for the warmth than anything else.
They didn’t talk much that time. Just sat. A couple of dogs ran past, barking. A toddler fell and wailed like the sky was falling. June didn’t flinch.
“You ever write music?” she asked after a while.
Sam shrugged. “A little.”
“Play it for someone?”
“No.”
“You should.”
He didn’t answer. But he came back the next day. And the next.
By the third week, she didn’t ask anymore. She just poured the tea, handed it over, and waited for whatever version of Sam showed up that day.
Sometimes he was quiet. Sometimes he was wired from school. Sometimes he brought the guitar out of the case and played a few chords, stopping whenever someone walked by.
One morning, she said, “You remind me of someone I used to know.”
Sam gave her a look. “Old boyfriend?”
“No. Myself.”
He didn’t know what to say to that.
The day he finally answered her question, he didn’t plan to.
They were talking about music again. She was telling him about some concert she saw in the ’70s, where someone threw a shoe on stage and the band kept playing like nothing happened.
He laughed, and then said, “I want to play where someone actually hears me.”
June didn’t say anything at first. Just nodded slowly.
“I mean,” he added, “not just clicks and likes. Not YouTube. Just… someone real.”
She tilted her head. “I heard you last Thursday.”
“I was just messing around.”
“I know. I still heard you.”
He looked down at his hands. “It doesn’t count.”
June smiled. “You can’t control what counts for other people.”
Then one day, she wasn’t there.
No cardigan. No thermos. No paperback folded on the bench.
Sam sat anyway. Played a little. Checked his phone too many times.
The next day—nothing.
And the next.
A week passed.
Then ten days.
He started bringing his own thermos. Hot chocolate, not tea. June would’ve approved.
On the twelfth day, while he was halfway through a melody, the park’s groundskeeper walked over.
“You the one who plays here now?”
Sam nodded.
The man held out a small envelope.
“She asked me to give you this. Said you’d know when.”
Sam stared at the name on the front—just Sam in careful, almost shaky handwriting.
Inside was a folded note:
Sam—
You were always being heard.
Keep showing up.
—June
He sat with it for a long time.
That Saturday, he played without looking at the path.
He wasn’t thinking about clicks or views or comments. He just played.
A week later, someone else sat beside him.
A man—sixties, maybe older. Baseball cap low over his eyes, wedding ring still on his finger even though the gold looked worn smooth.
“You the kid with the guitar?” he asked.
“Yeah. I’m Sam.”
The man nodded, like the name meant something. “Frank.”
The man glanced at the space where June used to sit. “She used to ask people questions.”
Sam nodded. “She asked me what I wanted once.”
“Me too. Told her I wanted to rebuild my dad’s old car. Never told anyone that before.”
They sat in silence for a while.
“You any good?” Frank asked.
“Sometimes.”
Sam adjusted a string, then added, “Here’s one I wrote. I’ve been trying out my own stuff lately.”
He played for Frank.
It wasn’t perfect. His fingers missed a note or two. But he didn’t stop.
When he finished, he looked out across the park, then down at the bench.
“I was working on it for her,” he said quietly. “For June. I hope she heard it.”
Frank didn’t say anything, but he sat a little straighter.
They stayed that way a while—two people, one missing someone, the other maybe missing the same.
