By midmorning the bench nearest the linden had already taken a polite half-step toward the light. Nobody pushed it. The pages did.
We asked at the kiosk. "I started a soup recipe out loud," said a woman with a shopping bag, "and the bench followed the sun the way a cat follows a warm windowsill. By the time I reached the salt, three neighbors knew the rest."
The park keeper pinned a small notice to the armrest: benches may travel, but only while someone is reading. Whispering counts. Humming does not. A visitor notebook already holds three thank-yous and one request for a slower chapter tomorrow.
The next day a boy came back with the same book and a spare sandwich. The bench waited, then inched after the light again, as if the alley still wanted to know how the story ends.