The coat on the bench

It was especially cold that day.

Not the kind of cold that comes quickly, like a windy cold, but the kind that creeps slowly under your coat and stays there.

The man was walking through the park when he saw the bench.

And on the bench lay a coat.

It wasn't old, it wasn't torn—it was just there, neatly folded.

He stopped.

He looked around.

Nobody.

He remembered how many times he had walked past things like that without stopping.

Now he sat down and took the coat in his hand.

It was warm.

Not new warmth.

The kind that someone had worn.

Someone had breathed in.

The man didn't take it away.

He didn't leave it there either.

He put it on and placed it on the shoulder of a homeless man who was sitting quietly at the entrance nearby.

He didn't say anything.

He didn't expect a thank you.

He just nodded, as the man nodded back.

As he walked on, he noticed that he wasn't so cold.

He wasn't wearing his coat, though.

That night he thought:

Maybe the cold doesn't always come from outside.

And neither does the warmth.

Sometimes it's enough to stop.

It's enough to notice.

It's enough to pass on what wasn't meant for us forever.

Because true warmth doesn't reside in the material, but in the movement when a person doesn't turn their head.