The Empty Bench at the Fountain

The night air was thick and humid, a stark contrast to the cool breeze that had been promised by the weather report. I had just finished an evening session at the old film studio, a relic of a bygone era now used for indie shoots and urban legends. I carried my cajón, the wooden box drum that was my livelihood and my curse, its surface worn smooth by countless performances. My new apartment was a twenty-minute walk from the ‘free’ parking lot—which was never free, because you always paid with worry and the constant threat of a tow truck. So I walked, the streetlights casting pools of sickly yellow light on the cracked pavement.

The mall loomed ahead, its garish glow a beacon against the encroaching darkness. Beside the entrance, a small plaza boasted a fountain that had been dry for years, its basin filled with dead leaves and old coins. I sat on the fountain’s edge, placing my cajón beside me, and checked the bus schedule on my phone. The next bus was due in ten minutes. The area was eerily empty, not a child in sight, not even a stray dog. The silence was a weight, pressing down on my ears.

As I waited, a warm wind, unnatural in its heat, brushed against the back of my neck. It felt like a breath, a close breath, as if someone were standing directly behind me, their lips inches from my skin. I turned sharply, expecting to see a face, but there was nothing. Only the empty plaza and the dead fountain. I shook my head, blaming my nerves. Then, from the cajón, came a soft rattle. The internal snare wires, which should have been perfectly still, vibrated as if strummed by an invisible hand. I froze, my hand hovering over the wood.

I had heard stories about this instrument, about the spirit that sometimes lingered near me, a presence I had felt since I first started playing. A boy, perhaps, lost and seeking connection. I don’t know why I spoke, but the words left my mouth in a low whisper: ‘Você está interessado no meu Cajón?’ The question hung in the air, swallowed by the thick night. The wind picked up, strong and sudden, whipping loose leaves into a frenzy. At that exact moment, the bus rumbled into view, its headlights cutting through the gloom.

I grabbed my cajón and boarded, not looking back. Inside, the bus was nearly empty, a few silent passengers scattered in the harsh fluorescent light. I took a seat by the window and placed the cajón on the floor between my feet. As the bus pulled away, I felt a cool spot on my leg, where the cajón was not touching. I glanced down and saw a faint impression on the fabric, as if a small hand had rested there. And in the window’s reflection, just for a split second, I saw a pale face next to mine, with a sad smile before it vanished.

I closed my eyes, trying to convince myself it was a trick of the light, a lingering smudge on the glass. But when I opened them, the seat beside me, which had been empty, bore a slight indentation, as if someone had just stood up. My cajón now felt warm to the touch, humming with a low, almost inaudible vibration. I stared out at the dark streets, the streetlamps flickering past, and I knew, with a certainty that chilled my bones, that the boy had not just been curious. He was coming with me, tethered to the drum, and he had no intention of leaving.