There’s a park near my home that I always return to, even when I tell myself I’ve outgrown it. The grass changes shades with the seasons — from a bright, careless green in spring to a dull, brittle yellow in the winter months. I used to come here as a child, running across the field until my legs burned, pretending the world was larger than it really was.

Now, I sit on the same bench where my mother once watched me play. The field is quieter than I remember — no games, no laughter, only the sound of wind moving through the dry leaves. A few cars pass by on the road beyond the trees, their noise fading quickly into distance. A man walks his dog past me, teenagers cut across the field.

It’s strange how a place can hold so many versions of you. The child chasing butterflies. The teenager crying after her first heartbreak. The adult sitting alone with coffee growing cold in her hand, thinking of all the people who have come and gone.

There’s a kind of peace here, but it’s heavy — the kind that comes when you realize life keeps moving even when you stand still.

As the sun begins to set, the sky turns the colors, I think about the people I’ve loved, the ones I no longer speak to, the ones I still miss in quiet moments. For a long time, I thought I needed to forget them to move on. But maybe remembering is a softer kind of forgiveness.

When the air cools and the park empties, I finally stand. I take one last look at the field — the same place that once held my joy, my heartbreak, my growing up. The world feels quieter, but I don’t mind. Somethings are meant to fade slowly, like daylight at the end of the day.