Every evening at exactly 6:15 PM, just as the sun began to dip over Lake Greenwood in Ninety Six, South Carolina, Howard Simpson would sit on the same green bench near the old boathouse. Dressed in slacks, polished shoes, and a buttoned-down shirt, he looked like he was waiting for someone important.
He was at least in his mind.
For nearly 52 years, Howard had shared this bench and most of his life with his wife, Alice. They’d raised two boys, survived cancer scares and the loss of a business, and laughed together through retirement. Alice passed two summers ago, and Howard hadn’t missed a single evening since.
Locals would nod politely as they walked by. Some whispered that he was “still in mourning,” while others just admired the consistency.
One evening, a young mother named Trina, new to the area and juggling a spirited five-year-old, found herself needing a break. She sat on the far end of the bench with a heavy sigh. Howard greeted her with a soft smile.
“You’re in Alice’s spot,” he said, almost apologetically.
Trina flushed. “Oh, I didn’t realize.”
“No, no, you’re fine,” he interrupted. “She doesn’t mind company. She likes people.”
Trina didn’t quite know how to respond, but Howard continued, more to the air than to her.
“She always said I should talk to strangers more. Said the world was full of stories I was missing. So I pretend she’s still saying it. Every night, I imagine what she’d tell me about the people walking by.”
Trina smiled, and her son clambered onto the bench beside her. Howard looked at the boy.
“You remind me of my grandson. Always moving. Always curious.”
That small moment stretched into nearly 45 minutes. Trina asked about Alice, about life in the town, about where to find the best pies. Her son listened quietly for once, maybe sensing the gravity of Howard’s memories.
When they left, Howard stood and gave a slight bow toward the empty space next to him.
“Thank you for letting me share, Alice,” he whispered.
Over the next few weeks, others began to join him. A jogger sat once to catch his breath and stayed for a story. A teenage girl with headphones off for once asked about the war medals on Howard’s lapel. No one mocked the idea of Alice. They respected it. Maybe they even envied it.
And in that small town, on that old green bench by Lake Greenwood, a quiet man taught people that imagination doesn’t have to be about dragons or castles. Sometimes, it’s just about remembering love in a way that keeps it alive and sharing it with anyone who needs a little light.