Every bench in the park faced the lake except one. Its back was toward the water, and its seat looked across a narrow strip of grass at a wall.
Nia had walked past it for years. She assumed it had been moved by mistake. One afternoon, when the other benches were full, she sat there to tie her shoe.
The wall held a small climbing plant. A shadow divided the bricks into two colors. Near the ground, a snail was moving with the untroubled certainty of something that had no appointment.
She stayed after her shoe was tied.
A man passing with a newspaper nodded toward the lake. “The view is the other way.”
“There is one here too,” she said.
He looked at the wall. Then at the snail. “A slower one.”
They sat at opposite ends of the bench. Neither tried to explain why it faced away. Perhaps it had been turned for repairs. Perhaps someone preferred shade. They did not need a secret history to enjoy the ordinary possibilities.
When the man left, Nia noticed the lake reflected in a window above the wall. From this angle the water looked like a small blue square someone had hung inside the building.
On her next walk, she chose the same bench. The snail was gone. The shadow had moved. The plant had reached one brick higher.
The view had changed without the bench turning at all.