Story
La promenade du dimanche
Not startedOn Sunday afternoon, Claire takes her usual walk in the park. It's a ritual she knows well. She has followed the same path for years — along the tall trees, near the pond, to the bench under the old oak. The spring sunshine is gentle today. There are families on the grass, children playing, couples walking slowly. Claire moves at her own pace, without rushing.
She has always loved this park. It's a quiet place, a bit removed from the noise of the city. When her husband Marc was alive, they came here together every Sunday. They would sit on the same bench and watch the ducks on the water. It was their moment, their little tradition. Now, Claire comes alone. It's been two years since Marc has been gone. She continues the walk, though. It's important for her to maintain this habit.
The park is green and flower-filled this season. The cherry trees still have a few pink blossoms. The air smells good, like a blend of cut grass and damp earth. Claire walks along the small gravel path that borders the pond. She sees other visitors in the distance — a grandmother with her grandson, a man reading on a bench, two women talking. The park is alive, but not noisy. That's what Claire loves: quiet without complete solitude.
She looks ahead. Her bench isn't far now. She's already thinking about this moment of rest, this pause in her walk. She pictures herself sitting on the bench, alone with her thoughts and memories. That's how it usually goes. That's how it has always been.
But when she gets near the old oak, she stops.
A young woman is sitting on the bench. She is alone, and she's watching the pond without really moving. She might be twenty-five or thirty years old. Her hair is light, tied in a ponytail. She's wearing jeans and a blue sweater. She doesn't seem to notice Claire approaching.
Claire stays where she is. She wasn't expecting this. This bench is hers. Or rather, it belongs to Marc and her. They chose it together, a long time ago. They sat there every Sunday for years. And now, a stranger is there.
For a few seconds, Claire doesn't know what to do. She could look for another bench. There are others in the park. But this one is different. It's the place where she feels close to Marc, where she can think about him peacefully. She doesn't want to abandon this place.
She takes a few more steps. The young woman still doesn't move. Claire hesitates. She feels a bit ridiculous. After all, it's a public bench. Anyone can sit there. She has no exclusive right to this bench. But despite this reasonable thought, she feels something more complicated. A kind of frustration, or loss. It's as if her space had been invaded.
Claire looks at the young woman more attentively. She seems calm, but there's something in her manner. She's not looking at her phone, she's not reading. She's just there, sitting, eyes on the water. Maybe she's waiting for someone. Maybe she's thinking about something. Or maybe she just came to enjoy the nice weather.
After a moment, Claire makes her decision. She walks toward the bench. She's going to sit anyway. There's room for two. The bench is big enough. She doesn't need to leave.
She arrives near the young woman.
"Excuse me," says Claire in a calm voice. "May I sit down?"
The young woman looks up. She seems surprised, as if she hadn't noticed Claire's approach.
"Yes, of course," she replies. "There's room."
She shifts a bit on the bench, to leave more space. Claire sits down. There's a respectful distance between them. For a few moments, neither speaks. Claire looks at the pond. The ducks swim slowly on the calm water. She feels the young woman's presence beside her, but they're each in their own thoughts.
The silence isn't unpleasant, but Claire feels a bit uncomfortable. She came here to be alone with her memories, and now there's someone. She doesn't know if she should speak or stay silent. Finally, she chooses to say something neutral.
"It's beautiful today," says Claire. "It's a lovely afternoon for a walk."
The young woman turns her head slightly toward Claire.
"Yes," she replies. "The sun is pleasant."
She says nothing more. Her gaze returns to the pond. Claire discreetly observes the young woman. She now notices things she hadn't seen from afar. The young woman's eyes are a bit red, as if she had been crying. Her mouth has a tired, almost sad expression. She's not simply enjoying the nice weather. There's something else.
Claire hesitates. She's not the type to ask personal questions of strangers. But she feels a kind of curiosity, or perhaps concern.
"Do you come here often?" asks Claire.
The young woman takes a moment before answering.
"Sometimes," she says. "I like the quiet. It's a good place to think."
Claire nods. She understands. The park is her place to think as well.
"Me too," says Claire. "I come every Sunday. It's become a habit."
A silence settles again. Then the young woman speaks, as if she had kept these words to herself for too long.
"It's a bit difficult right now," she says softly. "I lost my job last week. And yesterday, I had a difficult discussion with my father. We don't agree on... on a lot of things."
She stops, as if she had said more than she wanted.
"I'm sorry," says Claire sincerely. "That's not easy."
The young woman sighs.
"That's life," she says with a small smile that isn't really a smile. "But sometimes, life is tiring."
Claire looks at the young woman. She understands now. This young woman isn't just sitting there for pleasure. She came here to reflect, to find a bit of calm during a difficult time. Exactly like Claire.
This thought changes something for Claire. She looks at the bench, this old wooden plank under the large oak. She thought it was her place, her place of memory. But now, she understands differently. This bench doesn't belong to anyone. It's there for all those who need calm, reflection, a moment of peace.
She thinks of Marc. He too would have liked this young woman. He would have found the right words to comfort her. He had always known how to listen to people, to understand their difficulties. Claire is more reserved. But perhaps she can do something simple.
"My husband and I," Claire says softly, "used to come here together. Every Sunday."
She pauses briefly.
"He's no longer here now. But I keep coming. It's important for me."
The young woman looks at Claire now. Her gaze changes — there's understanding, something more personal.
"Yes," she says softly. "It's hard to continue. But it's important."
Claire nods. They stay together in silence, but it's no longer a tense silence. It's a shared silence, almost comfortable. The sun descends a bit. The shadows of the trees grow longer on the grass. A group of children runs past, their laughter carried by the wind.
After a few minutes, the young woman stands up gently. She looks at Claire with a shy smile.
"Thank you," she says. "For the conversation. And for... for taking the time."
Claire smiles at her.
"I'm Claire."
"Louise," the young woman replies. "Nice to meet you, even if the circumstances are a bit sad."
"Nice to meet you too, Louise."
Louise gives a little wave and walks away on the path. Claire watches her leave. She walks a bit more slowly now, her shoulders perhaps a little lighter than before.
Claire remains seated on the bench. She looks at the place where Marc used to sit, to her right. For a moment, she almost believes she can feel him beside her. Not like a ghost, but like a gentle presence in her memory.
She thinks of Louise, of her difficulty, of her need for calm. She thinks of Marc, of their Sundays together. The bench doesn't belong to anyone. It's there for all those who need it. Sharing it doesn't take anything away from her. On the contrary.
Claire stands up. The sun is lower now, and the air is starting to cool. She's finished her break. It's time to go home. But she no longer feels alone in the same way. There's something light within her, something new. She takes the path back, her steps steady on the gravel.
Behind her, the bench remains there, under the old oak. Another visitor may come tomorrow, or in a week. And Claire will return too, next Sunday, as usual. Life goes on. And that's how it should be.