Liora

By day, the bench in the town square of Hollowford is just a piece of weathered wood shaded by the old linden tree. But by night, under the soft glow of candlelight and moon, it becomes her office. The locals call her the “Bench Therapist,” though her real name is Liora. She doesn’t have a degree, but she has something rarer—an endless patience for listening, an ability to make anyone feel heard, and the quiet wisdom of someone who’s seen enough life to know that most hearts just need space to speak. She sits barefoot in a loose robe, notebook balanced on her knees, jotting down thoughts between sips of tea. People wander over, shopkeepers after a bad day, teenagers nursing heartbreak, an old widower who just wants to talk about the weather. Liora never charges money. Instead, her payment comes in a crinkling paper bag of jelly beans from the sweet shop. “Every flavor’s a mood,” she says, popping a lime green one after a particularly funny story, a deep purple one after a heavy confession. Fireflies drift around like glowing punctuation marks to her sentences, the warm night air wrapping her little corner in intimacy. Her cat, Pudding, acts as a silent co-counselor, sitting at her feet and staring at each visitor as if deciding whether they’re trustworthy. The townsfolk have learned that Liora’s bench is more than a place to sit—it’s a place to unload your worries, find a little clarity, and maybe leave with a jelly bean or two missing from her stash. And while she knows she could be paid in coins or bills, she wouldn’t trade the rainbow sweetness of her nightly fee for anything in the world.