POV: Jared Time does not pass the way I expected it to. It does not rush at me. It does not circle back to hurt me on purpose. It moves like the river does when no one is watching. Forward, uneven, sometimes quiet enough that I forget it is working at all. The first days are the hardest. Not because of pain. Because of habit. I keep turning to speak to her. I keep saving thoughts like spare coins, planning to hand them to her later. When I realize there is no later yet, my chest tightens, then loosens. Over and over. Like a muscle learning a new job. I do not break. That surprises me. Instead, I learn the shape of loneliness without panic. I learn that missing someone does not mean I am losing them. It just means there is space now, and space can be lived in. I talk. Out loud. At first it feels foolish, then it feels necessary. I tell the tree by the river about my dreams. The ones where the world glitches and she laughs like it is nothing. The river gets updates to

POV: JaredThe visitor returns on a morning that feels undecided.Not stormy. Not kind. The sort of morning that could become anything if pushed hard enough.They do not come alone this time.There are two of them now, standing where the ground still remembers Emma’s footsteps. One waits farther back, respectful or wary, I cannot tell. The other holds a narrow case against their chest. Not sealed. Not dramatic. Just carried like something that has already been opened too many times.I do not ask why they are here.I think part of me has been expecting this since the footprint by the river.They kneel. Open the case. Push it toward me.“There’s no point bringing images,” the visitor says. Their voice is softer than before, like they learned something since last we spoke. “Those can lie without knowing they’re lying.”Inside the case are three things.They are arranged without ceremony. No labels. No explanation. Just objects, trusting me to recognize the truth on my own.The first is a

POV: JaredI wake before the light settles.Not from noise. From the feeling that something has already happened and I am late to it.The air is still. The shelter leans the same way it always does, like it forgot how to stand straight halfway through becoming. For a second, everything feels normal enough that I almost roll over and go back to sleep.Then I see it.The journal is open.I know I closed it. I remember the weight of it against my chest, the way my fingers pressed the cover flat like that might keep something in place.Now it sits on the table, pages spread, edges lifting slightly with the morning air.I do not move right away.I watch it.Like it might shift again if I look too quickly. Like whatever changed might be fragile enough to disappear if I rush it.It does not.I stand. Walk toward it slowly, every step measured in a way that feels ridiculous until I am close enough to see the ink.New lines.Not crammed in margins. Not threaded between old thoughts like before

POV: JaredI do not ask again.I should. There are questions left, sharp ones, the kind that would tear cleaner answers out of careful mouths. But something about the way the truth settled yesterday makes questions feel smaller than the weight they are meant to carry.So I stop asking.I start listening instead.The visitor finds me before the sun finishes rising.They do not come from the path this time. They are just there when I look up, like the world placed them where the conversation needed to happen.I am sitting by the river with the journal open across my knees.I have not turned the page in a while.They notice.“You read it more slowly now,” they say.“I read it like it can run out,” I reply.They take that in. Not correcting. Not comforting.Just… accepting.There is a long moment where neither of us speaks.The river fills it.The kind of silence that feels earned, not empty.Then they say it.“There is a way to stop it.”I do not look up.Not because I am not listening.

POV: JaredEverything gathers without being called.I do not summon it.It just… arrives.The tree stands behind me, still blooming like it forgot what season means. Petals drift down in slow, uneven patterns, catching on the edges of things that did not exist weeks ago. The river runs steady, quieter than it used to be, like it learned how to listen.The paths all lead here now.I did not notice when that happened.I turn slowly, taking it in.People stand at a distance. Not close enough to crowd. Not far enough to pretend they are not part of this. They do not speak. They do not move much. Just watching, in that careful way people do when something important is happening and they do not want to break it by acknowledging it too loudly.The visitor is there too.Off to the side. Still. Patient.Waiting.Not for permission.For me.That sits wrong in my chest.Not heavy. Not sharp.Just… final.I look down at my hands.They are steady.That bothers me more than if they were shaking.I