Part 1
The bench appeared in March.
I run five kilometers around the park every day, following the fixed route. I know the position of every plane tree along the way by heart. On the morning of March 12th, as I reached the east side of the artificial lake, I froze mid-step.
Under the old locust tree, there was a new bench.
Dark brown preserved wood, cast-iron legs—no different from the others in the park. But my eyes locked onto the backrest.
Carved into it was a string of numbers.
2017.4.3
I stood there, breathing hard, staring at the characters. They were cut deep, as if chiseled slowly with something sharp, edges rough and filled with dust.
A memorial date, I thought. Someone had left, and the living donated this bench so passersby could rest, and so their grief could settle.
I glanced at it a few more times that morning, then finished my run.
On April 10th, I found a second one near the wisteria trellis by the park's east gate.
2017.5.17
Same handwriting, same carving style. I knelt down to look. When I touched the numbers, a splinter pricked my finger. It hurt.
On May 3rd, another bench appeared next to the children's playground.
2017.6.22
I started paying attention.
That summer, I found these benches like collecting stamps. Some hid deep in the bamboo grove, some stood by the main path, some faced trash cans. The locations varied, but the numbers followed the same format: year, month, day.
All the years were 2017.
The months ran from April to December. Some months had two or three benches, others none. By September, I had counted seventeen.
They spread across every corner of the park, like seventeen silent coordinates, marking something.
Part 2
The first time I felt something was wrong was in July.
It had been raining for days, and the park was almost empty. I ran in a raincoat, passing the bench marked 2017.4.3 by the lake.
The rain was heavy, soaking the bench completely. Water pooled on the seat. I had already run past, but I turned back.
There was a discolored patch on the surface.
Dark liquid dripped down from the carved numbers, spreading like ink in water. But it wasn't rain. Rain was clear and ran off quickly. This stuff was thick, sticky, hanging there before slowly falling in a drop.
I stood in the rain watching for a long time, then reached out and touched it.
It was warm.
The warmth sent chills over my skin. Rain was cold, but this liquid was warm, like fresh blood.
I brought my finger to my nose. No smell. But the slimy texture felt weirdly familiar—like something I knew but couldn't name.
When I got home, I washed my hands three times, but the slippery feeling lingered.
I tried to forget it. Summer heat, damp wood—anything was possible.
Then it happened again in August.
It was August 7th. I was running toward the bench in the northwest corner marked 2017.8.9. The sun had just set, but it wasn't fully dark yet.
Someone was sitting on it.
An old man, wearing a shabby gray jacket, hunched over, hands on his knees, staring blankly at the lawn ahead.
I slowed down and ran past him. He didn't look at me. His eyes didn't move at all, like a statue.
When I looped back around, he was still there.
Night had fallen. Streetlights flickered on, casting yellow light over him. I ran past again, but stopped after a dozen steps.
Something wasn't right.
The date carved on the bench was 2017.8.9.
Today was August 7th.
The date wasn't for another two days.
I didn't know why I cared. But the thought nagged at me like a splinter. I glanced back. Under the light, he still hadn't moved.
The next morning, I deliberately passed by. No one was there. The seat was clean.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
Then I saw the numbers on the backrest.
Beneath 2017.8.9, a fresh stain had dried, leaving a faint yellow mark, as if something wet had trickled down.
Part 3
In mid-September, I saw the old man again near the public restroom by the park's south gate.
It was Sunday, around three or four in the afternoon, sunny. I finished my run and walked toward the parking lot. He was sitting on a bench.
I had found that bench the previous month. It was marked 2017.7.14. He sat there holding a plastic bag with half a steamed bun inside.
I slowed down.
He saw me and nodded.
Without thinking, I stopped.
"You come here often?" I asked.
He nodded again and patted the empty space beside him. "Sit."
I sat down. The seat was warm from the sun. The wood grain was dense, varnished, shining in the light.
He pointed at the carved date. "Know what this means?"
"A memorial," I said. "Someone passed away. They donated a bench and carved the day."
He said nothing, staring at the numbers for a long time.
"This park," he said, his voice rough. "used to be a cemetery."
I froze.
"They leveled it and turned it into a park," he continued. "The ashes no one came to claim were scattered in this soil."
I looked down at the ground. The lawn was neatly trimmed, green and vibrant. You'd never guess what lay beneath.
"These benches were donated later," he tapped the backrest. "The dates are the days the people we remember left."
I opened my mouth, but no words came out.
He patted the bench he was sitting on. "This one was mine. For my son. He was only nineteen."
I looked at the date.
2017.7.14
July fourteenth.
"He liked this place," the old man said, his voice calm, as if talking about a stranger. "I brought him here to fly kites when he was little, right there on that slope. Later he came by himself, brought his girlfriend here, drank with friends here. The night he died, he was right here."
I asked without thinking: "What happened to him?"
He didn't answer.
He stood up and pressed the plastic bag into my hand. Inside was half a steamed bun and an unopened pack of pickled mustard greens.
"He didn't have dinner that night," the old man said. Then he turned and walked away slowly.
I sat there holding the food until the sun set and the seat turned cold.
Part 4
That night, I searched online.
"City park former cemetery" — nothing.
"City park historical renovation" — nothing.
I changed the keywords: 2017 fire funeral home.
When the results loaded, a cold chill ran down my spine.
On April 3rd, 2017, a major fire broke out at the city's No.2 Funeral Home. Nine people were killed, seventeen injured. The cause was a furnace malfunction triggering fuel explosion. The fire spread quickly, burning two farewell halls and a storage area. One line in the accident report made me read it three times:
"Some remains and ashes were damaged beyond recognition."
I stared at the screen, going over all the carved dates in my head.
2017.4.3
2017.5.17
2017.6.22
2017.7.14
2017.8.9
2017.9.11
...
All 2017.
From April to December, all after that fire.
I turned off my computer and lay in bed. The ceiling was dark. A little streetlight seeped through the curtains. The old man's words echoed in my head:
"The ashes no one came to claim were scattered in this soil."
No.2 Funeral Home.
The year of the accident, 2017.
If remains and ashes were unidentifiable after the fire, what happened to them? The news didn't say. But I knew everything had to go somewhere.
What if that somewhere was this newly renovated park?
I thought of the benches again. The one by the lake marked 4.3, the one hidden in bamboo marked 5.17, the one by the restroom marked 7.14, and the one in the northwest corner whose date hadn't come yet.
They stood silently, sun and rain, waiting for someone to sit.
I rolled over and buried my face in the pillow.
Warm liquid seeping from wood? Nonsense. Summer dampness, thermal expansion—anything was possible.
The next morning, I still went running.
I didn't stop at 2017.4.3. Didn't stop at 5.17. When I passed 7.14, I hesitated for a second, then kept going.
The bench was clean. Nothing there.
I cursed myself and sped up, trying to shake off the weird thoughts.
Then I saw it.
Part 5
It wasn't among the seventeen I'd counted.
Deep in the park, near the north wall, behind overgrown bushes. I never would have found the hidden path if I hadn't taken a wrong turn that day.
A narrow passage cut through the bushes, branches scraping against my clothes. At the end was a small clearing overgrown with weeds, and in the middle stood a bench.
I stood there frozen for ten full seconds.
This one was different from all the others.
The wood was old, gray and black, varnish peeling off to reveal cracked lines. The cast-iron legs were covered in rust. The left one was half-broken, wrapped messily with wire. The seat tilted crookedly in the grass, as if it might collapse any second.
But the numbers on the back were clear.
Carved deeper than any of the others.
2017.10.19
I walked slowly toward it. Weeds reached my calves, dew soaking my pants, cold. Locust branches blocked the sun, leaving the clearing cold and shadowy.
I looked down at the seat.
Dead leaves and bird droppings covered it. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. But I smelled it.
A stench.
Not fishy, not bloody. An indescribable odor, like a damp towel left too long, like something rotting.
I stepped back.
That was when I saw something in the grass.
A plastic bag, half-buried in mud. The same style as the one the old man had held—gray, with handles, the kind you get at supermarkets.
I knelt down and pulled it out.
It was empty.
But I recognized the crumbs inside—steamed bun and pickled mustard greens.
I squatted there holding the bag, my head buzzing.
The spot was at least 300 meters from the nearest path. No one would come here unless they were looking. The old man walked slowly. It had taken me minutes to get from the parking lot to the restroom. How could he have made it through that bush path?
Unless…
"He came."
The voice behind me made me jump. I nearly fell into the grass.
The old man stood right behind me.
Same shabby gray jacket, same hunched back, holding another identical plastic bag.
He didn't look at me. He walked straight to the broken bench and placed the bag on the seat.
"This one's my son's," he said.
I opened my mouth, voice cracking: "How… how did you get in here?"
He didn't answer. He just pointed at the bench.
"He chose it himself."
Something clicked in my head.
"He… chose it himself?"
"That night," the old man said, eyes fixed on the date. "The night it happened. He was here, with his girlfriend. Both of them, sitting on this bench."
I stepped back involuntarily.
"I looked for him for a long time," his voice remained calm. "A very long time. Later they told me the fire was too big. He was burned away. Nothing left."
He gently touched the broken backrest, as if stroking a child's head.
"When the park was renovated, people could donate benches and carve dates. I donated one," he said. "But not this one. The one I donated is over there, by the restroom. You sat on it."
My throat went dry. I couldn't speak.
"This one wasn't donated," he said.
He looked down at the plastic bag. The steamed bun and greens rolled out into the grass.
"He came here on his own."
The sun had hidden behind clouds. The clearing darkened. The stench grew so strong I felt like vomiting. I watched the carved numbers. The edges were turning black, as if something wet was seeping out from inside.
One drop.
Another.
Warm liquid trickled down the wood grain, falling into the grass, onto the plastic bag.
Something glistened in the old man's eyes.
"Nineteen years old," he said. "He hadn't eaten dinner when he left."
Part 6
I don't remember how I left.
I only remembered running out of the bushes as night fell. Streetlights shone pale white over the neat benches. People walked their dogs, children screamed and ran around the playground.
I leaned against my knees, gasping for breath, and glanced back.
Only darkness behind the bushes. Nothing.
I couldn't sleep that night. Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, every time I closed my eyes I saw the broken bench, the dripping liquid, the old man standing in shadow.
Early the next morning, I called the park administration.
A woman answered politely. I asked about the old bench behind the north bushes. She said "One moment," and I heard keyboard tapping.
"Sir, which bench are you referring to? All public facilities are registered."
I described the location.
She checked for so long I thought she'd forgotten me. Then she returned: "Sir, we've checked that area. No bench is registered there. It might be abandoned equipment. We'll send someone to verify."
"Abandoned?" I said. "There's a date carved on it. October 19th, 2017."
She paused.
"2017?"
"Yes. October 19th, 2017."
Silence on the line. Then: "Sir, could you leave your contact information? We'll call you back after checking."
I gave her my number and hung up.
She didn't call that afternoon. Or the next day.
On the third morning, I detoured to the path while running.
The bushes were still there. The narrow passage remained. But at the end, the clearing was empty.
The bench was gone.
Weeds were trampled, mud dragged fresh, revealing black humus beneath. I stood there and stepped on something.
The plastic bag.
Empty, covered in mud, crumpled.
I picked it up and stared. A supermarket label was faded, but one date was still visible.
2017.10.19
I squeezed the bag, standing on the turned soil. Locust leaves rustled above. Sunlight seeped through, shining on the fresh dirt.
Something glinted in the soil.
I knelt and brushed away the top layer.
It was a piece of bone.
Small, yellowed, edges charred black.
Part 7
I didn't call the police.
I didn't know what to say. I ran into a park, found an unregistered bench, dug up a charred bone under it—and then reported it? For what? That the bench vanished? Who the old man was?
I went home, wrapped the bone in tissue, and stuffed it deep in a drawer.
I kept the plastic bag too, on my desk, where I saw it every night.
I didn't run for the next few days. I made an excuse: knee pain. Truth was, I just didn't want to pass the park, see the benches, or think of the old man in the shadows.
But I couldn't forget the dates.
2017.4.3, 2017.5.17, 2017.6.22, 2017.7.14, 2017.8.9, 2017.9.11, 2017.10.19…
The fire started on April 3rd. The first bench appeared on the day of the first death.
Every date after that marked someone else who died later.
No—not died.
Disappeared.
I dug into follow-up reports of the fire. News back then was scarce, mostly short bulletins. I scrolled through pages until I found a tiny clue on an old local forum.
Posted: December 2017.
Title: Does anyone know this man? My husband went missing after the funeral home fire.
Only a few lines: My husband worked at No.2 Funeral Home. He was on night duty the night of the fire and never came back. They say he's not on the victim list. No one saw him. His phone is off. Any info?
Only one reply: My younger brother went missing that night too. He wasn't staff—he was there for a funeral.
I scrolled down. The thread was buried. No more replies.
I stared at the screen, fingers cold.
2017, funeral home fire. Official report: nine dead.
But the benches—if each marked a person—there were at least seventeen dates from April to December.
Seventeen.
How did nine become seventeen?
I thought of their positions: by the lake, in bamboo, near the playground, the restroom, hidden deep in bushes. Spread neatly across the park, like seventeen coordinates waiting for their owners.
Seventeen.
Or more.
I stood abruptly, opened the satellite map of the park.
And found the eighteenth bench.
Part 8
That night at eleven o'clock, I went to the park.
I didn't enter through the main gate. I climbed over the low east wall. Moonlight was bright, turning the lawn white as frost. I kept my phone off, walking silently in the dark.
The eighteenth bench was in a small forest in the southeast corner. I'd spotted a clearing on the satellite image during the day, a faint rectangular shape.
Now I stood before it.
A new bench. Preserved wood still light yellow, no rust on legs, varnish smell still fresh. Carved on the back:
2017.11.5
Moonlight shone on it. The numbers were clean, no liquid seeping out. I stood there, listening to my heartbeat.
Then I heard footsteps.
Soft, crunching on fallen leaves. Coming from outside the woods, step by step, toward me.
I didn't move.
The footsteps drew closer. A figure stepped out from the trees.
It was the old man.
Same gray jacket, same hunched back. He held nothing, walked slowly, and stood before the bench.
He didn't look at me. He only stared at it.
"This is my wife," he said.
My throat felt squeezed shut. I couldn't speak.
He reached out and touched the date. His face was pale in moonlight, eye sockets sunken, lips moving silently.
Then he turned and looked at me.
"You saw," he said.
Not a question.
I stepped back. My foot snapped a dry branch.
He took one step forward.
"You saw it, didn't you?"
I stepped again, back hitting a tree. No way out.
He stood in the moonlight, and a expression slowly appeared on his pale face. It took me three seconds to recognize it.
A smile.
"Don't be afraid," he said. "I don't hurt people."
He turned back to the bench.
"None of us do."
My teeth chattered. I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn't obey.
He spoke with his back to me:
"That night, the fire was huge. I was inside. My son was inside. My wife was inside. So many others. Some came to work, some to send off the dead, some just stopped to use the restroom."
His voice stayed calm.
"The fire burned everything away. Ashes mixed, unidentifiable. Later they leveled this place, built a park, buried the unrecognizable remains in the soil."
He turned to me again.
"But we never left."
His face shifted in the moonlight. Skin darkened, wrinkled, cracked, revealing charred blackness beneath.
"We're right here."
His eyes sank into dark holes. His mouth opened, black inside.
"The benches are for us. Each date is the day we left. On those days, we can come out and sit."
He stepped closer.
"What are you looking for?"
I couldn't make a sound.
He stepped again. A charred hand reached toward me.
"Do you want to sit too?"
I closed my eyes.
After an unknown time, a voice came, distant and soft.
"Open your eyes."
I didn't.
"Open your eyes and see who this is."
I opened them.
Moonlight still there. Woods still there. Bench still there.
The old man was gone.
Next to the carved numbers, new characters had appeared.
Small, shallow, as if just carved.
2026.3.1
Today's date.
I stared at it, blood turning cold in my veins.
Then a voice came from behind me.
Young, laughing, like a friend I'd just met.
"You come running here every day, right?"
I spun around sharply.
A figure stood in the moonlight.
Wearing my sports shirt, my running shorts, my running shoes. His face—
It was my face.
He smiled at me.
"I've been waiting a long time."