The first time you met Alexa, you didn’t even look up.

You were sitting on the bench by the water, the same one you’d been visiting since everything fell apart. The world had become quiet—too quiet. Even the sound of the waves felt like background noise to a life you no longer wanted to play.

Then came a voice, bright and soft. “Is this seat taken?”

You didn’t answer right away, but she sat anyway. Alexa Mendoza—someone who didn’t know your story, didn’t tiptoe around your grief, didn’t fill the silence with pity. She just sat there.

For weeks, she kept showing up. Sometimes she’d bring coffee, sometimes music, sometimes just herself. She never asked what happened, never forced you to talk. She let you breathe again—something you hadn’t realized you’d stopped doing.

One afternoon, she dropped a tiny speaker between you and pressed play.

A song filled the air—gentle guitar, warm vocals, something about starting again.

You frowned. “You think a song can fix me?”

“No,” she said, smiling faintly. “But maybe it can remind you that you’re still here.”