He started walking at dusk—no route, just the kind of walking that wears grooves in thinking. Across the bridge, along the river, past the bench where you can pretend water fixes things.
A text buzzed his pocket. Unknown number. She’s okay. Then another: Let her be okay without you for a minute. He typed Thank you and didn’t ask who. Sometimes you don’t get to be the protagonist of your own rescue.
He went home and didn’t wait at the window like a porch light pretending to be a lighthouse. He left the porch light on anyway, because habit can be a kind of hope too.
