Astonishing

    

I recently came across this story on Facebook and it brought tears to my eyes. But then I looked into it and discovered that it's probably an AI-generated story and the story, and the image, may not be real. That hurt more as I had been so moved and had shared it in the hope that it would inspire others to see there is still good in this dark world we live in. 

AI has revolutionised some parts of our lives, such as through it's use in healthcare, but I can't help feeling cheated by it - the internet is drowning in a sea of misinformation and in a world where fake news dominates, trust breaks down too. 

So maybe this story isn't real, but it still makes a good story so I'm keeping my faith in humanity (rather than any AI bot).

"My name’s Morris. I’m 78. Live alone since my Edna passed five years back. Every Tuesday, I catch the 10:15 bus to the library. Same seat. Same walk. For years, it was quiet. Just me, the pigeons, and that old green bench at Oak Street stop.

Then last winter, I started noticing the kids. Not playing. Not laughing. Just.... sitting. Heads down. Fingers flying over phones. Even in the rain. One Tuesday, a girl in a purple backpack sat hunched, shoulders shaking. Not crying, just empty. Like the bench swallowed her whole. My chest hurt. I remembered my grandson, Liam, before he got that scholarship. Same look. Like the world forgot he existed.

I went home restless. Edna always said, "Morris, you fix what’s broken." But what’s broken here? Phones? No. Hearts.

Next morning, I dug out my grandson’s old tablet. Spent three shaky hours learning QR codes (turns out YouTube tutorials are for young eyes!). Printed simple signs,

SCAN ME. TELL ME YOUR STORY.

I’M LISTENING.

Taped them to the bench corners. Used duct tape—Edna’s favorite "fix-all."

First week? Nothing. Kids walked past like the signs were trash. Mrs. Gable from 42 scoffed, "Foolishness, Morris. They want screens, not old men." Maybe she was right.

Then, a miracle. A boy, maybe 12 scanned it. Sat there 20 minutes, typing. Later, I checked the shared Google Doc (yes, I set one up! Edna would’ve laughed). His words,

"My dad’s sick. Mom works nights. I’m scared. But I drew a dragon that breathes glitter. It’s in my pocket."

My hands shook. I bought glitter glue and left it under the bench with a note, "For the dragon artist. Keep shining. —Morris (the bench friend)"

Next day? A folded paper airplane landed beside me. Inside, a glittery dragon. And "Thanks. Dad’s smiling today."

Word spread. Kids started coming early for the bus. Scanning. Typing. A girl wrote, "Bullies call me ‘robot’ ’cause I love coding. But robots don’t feel sad, right?" I left a book: "Ada Lovelace, Girl Who Dreamed in Code." She left cookies the next week. "Robots eat sugar too"

It wasn’t perfect. Rain washed away signs. Some ignored it. But slowly.... the bench changed. Kids sat together. Talking. A teen scanned and wrote, "I’m failing math. Too ashamed to ask." Two girls saw it, messaged him, "We’ll help. Meet us here Saturday." They did. Now they tutor three kids a week.

Then came the cold snap. I slipped on ice, broke my hip. Two weeks in hospital. Felt useless.

The day I got home, I shuffled to the bus stop... and stopped dead.

The bench was covered. Not in trash—but in notes, drawings, tiny gifts. A knitted coaster ("For your tea!"). A Lego robot ("From the coding club!"). A photo, kids holding a sign "MORRIS’S BENCH: WE SEE YOU."

Mrs. Gable was there, hammering a new sign into the post. "Took you long enough to heal," she grumbled. But her eyes were wet. "We added a real mailbox. For stories too long for phones."

Now? Twelve bus stops in town have "listening benches." Run by teens, retirees, even the grumpy postman. No apps. No donations. Just... space to be heard.

Yesterday, the glitter-dragon boy (now 14) helped me plant marigolds in a pot by the bench. "You taught us," he said, patting the soil, "loneliness is the only thing that really needs fixing."

I think of Edna. She’d say I fixed the bench. But the truth? Those kids fixed me. They reminded me that broken hearts don’t need grand gestures. Just a safe place to whisper, "I’m here." And someone willing to say back, "I hear you."

We’re not waiting for buses anymore. We’re waiting for each other. And that? That’s how the world gets warmer. One scanned story at a time."

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Let this story reach more hearts...

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By Mary Nelson