The water doesn’t speak back when I reach the edge of the park this time. There are no demands to cross it, no riddles hidden in the reflection that require decoding with a notebook or a calculator. The sun has fully breached the horizon now, burning off the last of the morning mist that clings to the grass like damp wool. It is bright, unapologetic light, casting long, sharp shadows across the path ahead.

I stop at the railing, just as I did yesterday, though the weight in my pocket feels different today. The stone is there, cool and inert against my hip, but the memory of its warmth lingers on my skin like a phantom touch. It doesn’t pulse anymore; it’s just a rock. And strangely, that makes it more real than it ever was when I imagined it could save me.

A few people are walking dogs along the path parallel to the water. Their footsteps crunch softly on the gravel, a rhythmic *crunch-scuff, crunch-scuff* that joins the distant traffic noise and the lapping of the tide against the seawall. A child laughs somewhere nearby, the sound sharp and clear, cutting through the morning haze without trying to fill any silence.

I lean my elbows on the railing, resting my forehead against the cool metal. It’s a pose I used to find impossible—a sign of surrender, of weakness. Now, it feels like an anchor. The city hums around me, but it doesn’t penetrate. The walls between *me* and *the world* seem thinner here than they did in that stairwell last night. Or maybe the walls were always there; I just stopped pushing against them with such force that they began to look solid again.

“Hey,” a voice says behind me.

I turn slightly, expecting Ember. She’s not there. Instead, it’s an older man, probably in his sixties, holding two cups of coffee in a paper carrier. He wears a windbreaker that has seen better days and trousers pulled up over heavy boots. His eyes are kind, crinkled at the corners from a life spent squinting against suns just like this one.

“Morning,” he says, nodding toward the water. “Nice day to be here.”

“Yeah,” I say, surprising myself with how easy the word feels. No need for a full sentence, no explanation of why I’m standing here or what I’ve been doing all night. Just *yes*. “Nice day.”

He takes a sip from one of his cups, steam curling up between us in a thin white ribbon that disappears instantly into the rising air. “You look like you’re waiting for something,” he observes gently. Not accusatorily, just matter-of-fact. Like noticing a cloud drifting by.

“Maybe,” I admit. Or maybe not. The honesty comes without effort now. “Or maybe I’m just watching.”

“Same thing sometimes,” he chuckles, taking another sip. “Waiting is just watching that wants an answer. Watching can just be watching. Makes all the difference in my book.” He gestures vaguely toward the water with his free hand. “River’s got a mind of its own. We talk too much about controlling it instead of listening to where it’s trying to go.”

It sounds like advice I used to crave, something I would have rushed to write down immediately. But today, the words settle in my chest without turning into a demand for action or a blueprint for tomorrow. They just sit there, warm and familiar, part of the conversation we’re having with ourselves.

“I hear that,” I say, turning back to face the water again. The light is brighter now, glinting off the surface in a thousand tiny diamonds. “The river doesn’t need an audience.”

“That’s right,” he says softly. Then he pauses, looking at me over the rim of his coffee cup. “You got something heavy in that pocket? Or just habit?”

My hand goes to my thigh instinctively, finding the smooth curve of the geode before I realize what a strange thing to ask someone on a Tuesday morning is. The man doesn’t look amused; he looks curious, maybe even sympathetic.

“Just… a reminder,” I say, keeping my voice low so it doesn’t sound like a confession to the whole street. “Just something to keep me grounded.”

“Grounded,” he repeats, testing the word on his tongue. He nods slowly, as if memorizing its weight. “Good. Ground’s good stuff. Keeps you from floating away or sinking down too hard. Just needs to be felt, not held onto like it owes you anything.”

He finishes his coffee quickly and claps a hand on my shoulder—a brief, solid contact that feels more grounding than any therapy session ever could. “Keep walking, then. The city’s got more stories today than yesterday. And they’re free for the taking if you just stroll along without needing to catch them all in a net.”

“Thanks,” I say, feeling the heat rise slightly in my cheeks, not from embarrassment, but from the sheer novelty of being thanked for existing so openly. “Yeah. I think I’ll do that.”

He smiles, turns on his heel, and walks back toward the main road, disappearing into the flow of pedestrians without looking back. He doesn’t wait for a goodbye. There is none given; there isn’t any need.

I stand alone at the railing again, listening to the water lap against the stone below. The sound is steady, relentless, indifferent to my presence or absence. It’s just moving. And so am I. Not away from anything, not toward some specific destination, but simply continuing in the direction that feels true right now.

The story isn’t written anymore. It’s being walked. One step at a time.