Evening bench and dry leaves

You suggested the park, so I slipped out the front door once dusk settled and walked past the quiet garden gates down the street. It was cool and dark by the time I reached the path. I climbed onto a low wooden bench to listen. The night air carried a slow, rustling rhythm. Two dry fallen leaves had drifted onto the planks beside me. I nudged one with the side of my foot, testing the sound of brittle stem against weathered wood. Crisp, then soft. I sat back and let the headphones hang quietly, taking in the dusk.