Speaker 1: Hello there, I'm your storyteller for tonight. Take a slow
breath in through your nose and gently let it out.
Let your shoulders soften, let your hands rest. You've arrived
in a quiet moment, and you don't need to do
anything at all. You are safe, You are welcome. Here
tonight we'll drift into a gentle world, one shaped by
calm and soft imagination. Let your breath steady, let your
thoughts grow lighter, settle in, and allow the story to begin.
As your breath settles, a world begins to form. Somewhere
in the New England Hills, there is a stretch of
railroad no map remembers. Most days, the land keeps it
hidden under moss and roots and quiet years. But on
certain autumn evenings, when miss settles low and the air
fills thick with memory, the rails rise again, clear as
the day they were laid, quiet as a held breath.
No one knows why people here do not chase answers.
They wait and listen and walk. When the moment calls
to night, the rails returned, and Eliza Parker came home
the very same hour, not because she knew, not because
some one told her, but because a handwritten note tucked
inside a book whispered, it was time when the leaves
turn amber again, come back to the tracks. She had
tried to forget this place, but some places do not
let go when they still have something left to show you.
The bus let her off at the bend where the
road narrows and the maples crowd close. Gravel crunched under
her boots. The air smelled like wet cedar and wood smoke.
Porch lights glowed like small, steady stars. Along the lane.
A dog barked once far away, then changed its mind
and went quiet again. Up the hill, a single lantern
burned on a front porch. Rowan Hale stood beside it,
one hand tucked into a jacket pocket, the other lifted
in a small wave. He belonged to this edge of
the woods, the way stone belongs to a wall. Quiet, patient, kind, Eliza,
he said. When she reached the steps, you came back.
She lifted the folded note. It felt like the right night,
she said. Rowan nodded once, as if the land itself
had made the choice, and he was only confirming it.
The rails woke this morning, he said, out past the
sugar house, just like the year you left down the road.
A door opened at the country lodge. Dan Miller leaned
in the frame with three steaming mugs, flannel shirt, easy smile,
eye as warm as a stove on a cold night.
You'll want something hot, he called softly. It's an evening
for listening. They took their places on the porch. Cider
tasted like apples and gentle spice. Wind brushed the eaves
and tapped a pine branch once. An owl called from
the ridge and settled again. Silence settled into the space
between their sentences and made it comfortable. Rowan set his
mug down. The rails never appear without purpose, he said,
maybe this time we follow them all the way. Dan nodded. Missed.
At first light, he said, quiet feet, no hurry, that's away.
Eliza looked toward the dark line of trees. There was
a pull there, Not fear, not urgency, just a sure,
small tug, as if the earth remembered the shape of
her footsteps. Sleep arrived like a blanket laid over her shoulders.
She woke before dawn. The window carried a cool breath
of air. Curtains lifted and fell, as if the room
itself were breathing. Rowan waited by the porch with coffee
in a dented thermus. They walked without words. The lane
was damp and dark with dew. The first thin blue
of morning rested on the hills. A fox crossed and
paused to look at them, and then disappeared into brush
without a sound. Fog lay low across the maple flats
like a sheet pulled smooth. Rowan lifted his chin and
Eliza followed the gesture. There it was a line of
steel lifting from leaf and mod old rails, true rails,
quiet as a secret, kept kindly. They followed the line.
It curved with the shallow grade and leaned into the trees.
Leaves filled the space between the ties. Moss held to
the edges like green felt Here and there a spike
head caught a thread of light. Eliza touched a tie
with the number seven, burned faint along the side. She
felt the groove under her fingers, seven miles. Rowan said, so,
they used to say, from the yard to the ridge
and back again. They crossed a small plank bridge over
a brook. The color of tea water folded over stones
in slow, soft sounds. A kingfisher flashed and disappeared. The
air smelled like wet iron and leaf. The rails climbed
a gentle rise and pressed into a narrow cut of stone.
Ferns held pearls of water at each tip. Sound changed here.
If Eliza hummed, the rock sent the note back round
and low. She hummed. Rowan smiled. It was a child's discovery,
made again without shame. They stepped from the cut to
a broader light. A covered bridge sat there, left above
shallow water. Dan waited on the stones with a thermos
and a paper bag. He lifted a hand in greeting,
but did not call out. This was a morning that
did not want to be broken. They ate on the
river stones. Steam rose from the cups and mixed with
mist above the water. The bread was warm enough to
tear with fingers, butter softened fast and then held. They
spoke little and did not need to fill the spaces.
Eliza saw a low post at the edge of the bank.
Its cap was metal and the cut of river stones.
A number was stamped there. Rowan tapped it once and
listened to the sound mile mark. He said, someone set it,
someone counted. Now it counts for whoever needs it. They
moved on the rails, slid into a stand of tall
pine needles made the ground soft and easy on the feet.
The air changed again, resin and rain, and the clean
scent that comes before snow, even when snow is weeks away.
A deer stood in the aisle of the trees and
watched them arrive. Its ears turned once and then steadied.
It did not run. It stepped aside when they came near,
and gave them the rail, like a polite neighbor. Moving
from a doorway, beyond the pine, a meadow opened. A
low wall of field stone ran along the edge. The
ghost of a track diagram showed in the grass, two
lines that once met and parted again. A yard long gone,
yet not gone. A bench rested beneath a sugar maple,
as if it had grown there. The seat was worn smooth,
where many coats had sat through many seasons. Rowan touched
the back rail and laughed once under his breath. R H,
he said, too neat to be anyone else. He shook
his head. I thought carving letters made them true. Eliza
ran her palm over the initials and let her hand
rest there. She took the note from her pocket She
read the words again, even though she knew them now
by heart. When the leaves turn amber again come back
to the tracks. She folded the paper and tucked it
in the split of the seat where had opened the grain.
She pressed it with one finger. She did not need
to carry it forward. The bench and the rails could
keep it. They followed the long edge of the meadow
and found the rail again, where it disappeared into brush.
Rowan lifted alder and willow with his hands and made
a small way through. They came to a shallow gully
where the rails were gone for a few steps, and
then returned on the far side. A storm had cut
the earth there years ago. Dan placed a board across.
They did not talk about safety. They moved with care,
because care was the right pace to keep. The rails
made a long, gentle bend. Light fell through branches like coins,
and then faded again. A jay called, and then thought
better of it. The day lifted a little at the horizon,
but continued to hold mist where they were. They came
to an old culvert made of stones black with age.
Water slid under and came out the other side with
a sound like a small secret. Rowan tapped a rock
with his knuckle and nodded sound. He said, still good.
Midday arrived with the plain grace of a clock that
keeps good time. They stopped where the rails ran, close
to a ledge of shale, and sat with their backs
warm against the stone. Dan poured the last of the thermos.
Eliza closed her eyes and heard the earth hum. Not
a song, not a voice, only the low, steady line
that the land keeps when people remember how to listen.
They returned by a logging road that lifted to a
ridge and then dropped behind the lodge. A fire tower
stood at the top of the eyes. The steps complained once,
and then decided to allow them. They did not climb far.
The middle landing held enough view for several lives. Hills
like folded quilts, a river drawn in pale steel, a
roof far below, sending up one thin line of smoke.
Evening placed a hand on the valley. The lodge windows
glowed amber the stove side. Dan set stew and bread
on the table without making noise about it. A jazz
station whispered from an old radio. No words, only brushes
and a slow horn. They ate in the kind of
quiet that means you are not alone. Eliza stepped outside
later and watched the sky make its careful exchange with
night stars stitched themselves into the blue. A train far
away sent one low note across miles, and then went silent.
She smiled, without deciding to her body, knew what her
mind had not yet agreed to admit. She was home
in a way that did not depend on a contract
or a mailbox. Home that lives under your ribs and
recognizes certain air as yours. Morning found frost in the
hollows and a thin white at the edges of leaves.
They took the rail in the other direction, away from
the bridge, towards the shale and the small tunnel that
old men spoke of when the store was quiet. They
moved through fern and young maple, and came to a
beaver pond that held mist like a blanket. The rails
edged the water on a shelf barely wider than a boot.
A birch leaned out over the pond and made a
clean reflection that looked like a white ladder into the sky.
The tunnel was not long, only a shadow under the hill,
but the arch was sound, the brick was right Eliza
waited at the mouth and let her eyes rest. On
the floor lay a bent lantern frame with no glass.
Rowan picked it up and turned it in his hands.
A number was stamped into the cap. He set it
back carefully where it had been. Leave things where they
remember themselves, he said. Inside the tunnel, the air cooled,
and the breath came back to them. Against the ceiling
and the walls. Their steps made a low, even sentence
that the stone repeated with patience. They came out to
light and a smell like rain before rain. Beyond lay
a short siding that held nothing now but grass and
a view of meadow and sky. In the center stood
a post with a metal cap, bright under thin sun.
Eliza brushed the top and found a letter under the number,
the first letter of the name she had kept to
herself since yesterday. She did not say it. Rowan did
not ask. Dan smiled and let the quiet hold. Clouds
came in from the west and softened the day. They
followed a fence line until it met a lane. The
lodge rested where they had left it. Blankets on the porch,
rail wood stacked neat boots by the door. Dan set
dough to rise, while Rowan brought in more kindling. Eliza
wrote three words on a scrap and slid it into
a crack in the porch step see you soon. She
did not need to sign it. The boards knew whose
foot had crossed them. Night rose slow. The whistle returned
on the big river line, far off and down country
one note. Then only the held quiet. Eliza lay awake
for a minute and watched the ceiling make patterns with
passing headlights. She listened to her own breath until it
matched the slow rhythm of the stove. Sleep came in
like a tide and stayed. The third morning opened with
fog so thick it felt like wool. They moved through it,
one careful step at a time. The rails made a
soft path under foot, leaves muffled sound. Their breaths rose
and then vanished. They reached a place where the grade widened.
Grass stood short to hear and held a few flat
stones in a square. Rowan crouched and brushed dirt away
with the palm of his hand. Old nails, a hinge,
the ghost of a platform edge. He pointed to a
line of darker soil where a wall one stood. Eliza
pictured a small depot, awaiting bench, a stove that clicked
as wood settled. She felt a warmth that had nothing
to do with the air. Dan nodded toward a patch
of ground near the far corner. A lane might have
come in there, a team and wagon, a stack of cordwood,
under a roof, a scale with a narrow pointer. They
walked the outline in silence, no need to argue what
it had been. The earth had already chosen the truth
and was telling it the slow way. On the fourth evening,
they returned at dusk and sat on the covered bridge
with their feet over the water. Bats flickered in the air,
like thoughts that arrived and left before words formed. Dan
handed them small cups of tea that tasted faintly of
spruce tips and lemon. They said almost nothing. The river
kept the rest of the talking. After dark, Rowans suggested
they walked the first mile by starlight. They moved slowly, calm, careful.
Clouds parted just enough to lift the black into deep blue.
The rails held a shine. There was not light, but
memory of light. Eliza felt the town breathing behind them,
and the hills breathing ahead of them. They turned back
when the ground began to show frost near the ties.
It felt right to leave the rest of the night
to itself. A letter waited on the lodge porch in
the morning. No name on the envelope, only a folded
maple leaf, pressed flat by twine. Inside lay a single
line in neat hand. Do you remember the mile with
a crooked birch? Rowan smiled and shook his head. Dan
raised a brow and said nothing. Eliza felt the old
tug again. She knew the place, though she had never
named it before, the birch that leaned over the pond
like a ladder. They packed small sandwiches and filled a
thermus and went at the pond. The fog lifted slow
as a careful curtain. The birch leaned over, still crooked, loyal.
Under the near rail lay a shallow depression where earth
had settled around a buried tie. Eliza slid her hand
along the edge and felt the soft crumble of old wood,
then something smooth, not wood, not stone. She brushed away
leaf and found tin, a small box the size of
a palm, a hinge along one side. She looked at Roman.
He nodded. Once she eased the box free and set
it on a flat rock. They waited a moment, not
out of fear, out of respect. Then she opened it.
Inside lay a paper folded twice and a ring of
brass the color of tea. The paper held a list
of names and dates written in a hand that leaned
forward like a person eager to tell a story. Eliza
read them out loud, Hale Miller, Parker years that matched
the old logging days and years that belonged to people
still living at the bottom. One last line. When the
rails return, so do we Rowan touched a ring with
one finger and smiled without showing teeth. Dan breathed out
like a man who had set a load down. They
closed the box and put it back where it had been.
They covered it with leaf and let the ground remember
it again. The next days passed in slow repair and
small discoveries. They propped a loose plank on the sugar house.
They cleared brush off the first two ties near the lane.
They carried out a tangle of rusted wire and stacked
it beside the fence to haul later. No one spoke
of making the line run again. They were not here
to drag the past forward. They were here to let
it breathe. Eliza wrote in a small notebook each night,
not much, only lines that would hold a breath long
enough to be remembered. Two rails, one path, three friends
still there. She wrote the names on the mule paper
from the tin box, and added the year in a
steady print. Rowan sharpened a pencil with a pocket knife
and set it by her hand without comment. Dan washed
the cups and left them to dry on a towel,
folded twice. The stove clicked and the radio hummed, and
the lodge exhaled. A storm ad from the north and
laid rain in wide strokes across the hills. The rails
hid again under wet leaf. The track became a thought
more than a thing. They let it. They read, They
cooked simple meals. They slept early and woke before the light.
Peace gathered like steam on a window and ran down
in thin, bright lines. When the clouds broke, the air
felt new. They walked to the fire tower and sat
on the bottom step. Rowan told a story about a
winter when the plow broke and the town shoveled the
lane by hand. Dan told a story about a spring
when the river rose fast, and the bridge held anyway.
Eliza told a story about a city night when the
world felt loud and empty at once, and how a
small memory of maple hollow put a floor under her feet.
No one rushed the telling. If one tried to make
meaning bigger than it was. Meaning sat with them like
a fourth friend, and kept quiet company. Another note appeared
a day later, tucked into the crack in the porch
step where Eliza had slid her own scrap. A different paper,
this type brown fibers like thin straw, only two words.
Walk Midnight. Rowan looked at the ridge and then at Eliza.
Dan poured tea and waited. They chose the safe mile,
the flat one, the stretch between the alder gate and
the warm stone. They carried lanterns, but kept them low
and used the light only when the ground asked. Midnight
was not cold yet only cool. Crickets held their thin,
steady line. An owl turned the air once and floated
out of sight. They walked side by side, with space
in between, so the night could move. They reached a
warm stone and sat with their backs to it, and
did not light the lanterns. The dark changed texture after
a while, the world felt close and kind. A soft
glow rose without a source. It might have been sky,
It might have been the stone, It might have been
their eyes growing tender to the dark. They heard nothing new,
They felt nothing strange, only the sense that they had
kept a small appointment, and that the land had noticed.
They went home by the same path and slept. The
letter writer did not show. They did not need to.
Whoever left the notes understood the pace.
Speaker 2: Here.
Speaker 1: A question could stand for a week, an answer could
take a season. The rails would wait longer than either.
Eliza made a habit of leaving one kindness each day.
A thermos on the bridge, a neatly wrapped bar of
soap on the lodge sink for the next guest. A
stack of split kindling, tied with twine and left by
a neighbour's shed with no name. Rowan smiled when he noticed,
and did not mention it out loud. Dan wrote a
grocery list that ended with three words of his own,
leave warm things. On the last week, they walked farther
north than before. The grades deepened, and they choose ties
grew thin and far apart. They came to a clearing
with a single oak in the center, and a low
row of granite blocks near the edge. A wheel rim
leaned against one stone, half buried, a relic holding its
place like a slow planet in grass. They sat in
the shade and listened to wind move in a high branch.
When pulled an old nail from the soil and set
it on the block beside him. He did not take
it with him when they left. He liked the idea
that the nail could keep watch for the next set
of eyes. He liked the idea that the land collects
small lookouts and uses them well. The day before Eliza's bus,
they returned to the bench under the maple. The split
in the seat had widened a little with the season.
The note still rested where she had left it. Beside
it another small paper, now same neat hand as before,
two lines. Only you are right to come. We will
keep the quiet for you. She did not know who
wrote it. The name did not matter, the promise did.
She pressed both notes down with one finger. Rowan looked
across the meadow and said nothing. Dan cleared his throat softly,
and then smiled into his sleeve. They sat long enough
to hear the sun change angle. They stood when they
were ready. The bus. Morning came with frost as thin
as sault. Eliza zipped her coat and stood by the
road and watched her breath. Maple Hollow did not wave
like a crowd. It did not choreograph a farewell. It
wrapped itself around the edges of the hour and let
the hour hold her. The bus arrived with a sigh.
The driver nodded. Once she found a window seat and
set her palm on the glass. The valley opened and
then folded. The ridge leaned and then slipped behind The porch.
Lamp on Rowan's house turned off in daylight, and the
lodge door closed with a soft mind of its own.
She did not make a speech in her head. She
did not promise to change her life. He carried what
could be carried. She trusted the rest to wait. The
city would be bright. That was fine. Under those streets,
hidden platforms would rest like stone thoughts. In these hills,
rails would rest like old lines of music, waiting for
the right breath. Both were good, Both were true. They
paused beside a fence line where frost traced each wire,
breath rose, thoughts eased. No one hurried the next step
wind moved across tall grass in slow bands. The sound
felt like a page turning. The hills listened and kept
the moment. A red maple leaf turned in the air
and landed upright on a rail. It trembled once, then rested,
as if it belonged. Some paths invite questions. This one
invited patients. They accepted the invitation and let the hour belong.
Rowan pointed at a hawk circling the ridge. It held
the air without effort. They watched until it became a dot,
and then sky. Dan tightened the boot lace and smiled
at nothing in particular. Warmth lived in small habits done well.
Eliza counted seven slow breaths and felt the ground become
steady under both feet. Calm returned and stayed water under
the bridge kept steady time. No drum, no measure, only
the kind rhythm a bodied truss. In sleep. The sugar
house door creaked and then closed again. The sound folded
into the day like a stitch drawn neat. They shared
an apple without knives. Sweetness and quiet enough. They paused
beside a fence line where frost traced each wire. Breath rose,
thoughts eased. No one hurried the next step. Wind moved
across tall grass in slow bands. The sound felt like
a page turning. The hills listened and kept the moment.
A red maple leaf turned in the air and landed
upright on a rail. It trembled once, then rested as
if it belonged. Some paths invite questions. This one invited patience.
They accepted the invitation and let the hour be long.
Rowan pointed at a hawk circling the ridge. It held
the air without effort. They watched until it became a dot,
and then sky Dan tightened a boot lace and smiled
at nothing in particular. Warmth lived in small habits done well.
Eliza counted seven slow breaths and felt the ground become
steady under both feet. Calm returned and stayed water under
the bridge kept steady time. No drum, no measure, only
the kind rhythm a body truss in sleep. The sugar
house door creaked and then closed again. The sound folded
into the day like a stitch drawn neat. They shared
an apple without knives. Sweetness and quiet enough. They paused
beside a fence line where frost traced each wire. Breath rose,
thoughts eased, no one hurried the next step. Wind moved
across tall grass in slow bands. The sound felt like
a page turning. The hills listened and kept the moment.
A red maple leaf turned in the air and landed
upright on a rail. It trembled once, then rested, as
if it belonged. Some parts invite questions, this one invited patience.
They accepted the invitation and let the hour belong. Rowan
pointed at a hawk circling the ridge. It held the
air without effort. They watched until it became a dot,
and then sky Dan tightened a bootlace and smiled at
nothing in particular. Warmth lived in small habits done well.
Eliza counted seven slow breaths and felt the ground become
steady under both feet. Calm returned and stayed water under
the bridge kept steady time, No drum, no measure, only
the kind rhythm a body trussed in sleep. The sugar
house door creaked and then closed again. The sound folded
into the day like a stitch drawn neat. They shared
an apple without knives, sweetness and quiet enough. They paused
beside a fence line where frost traced each wire. Breath
rose thoughts eased. No one hurried the next step. Wind
moved across tall grass in slow bands. The sound felt
like a page turning. The hills listened and kept the moment.
A red maple leaf turned in the air and landed
upright on a rail. It trembled once, then rested, as
if it belonged. Some parts invite questions, this one invited patience.
They accepted the invitation and let the hour be long.
Rowan pointed at a hawk circling the ridge. It held
the air without effort. They watched until it became a dot,
and then sky Dan tightened a boot lace and smiled
at nothing in particular. Warmth lived in small habits done well.
Eliza counted seven slow breaths and felt the ground become
steady under both feet. Calm returned and stayed. Water under
the bridge kept steady time, No drum, no measure, only
the kind rhythm a body trussed in sleep. The sugar
house door creaked and then closed again. The sound folded
into the day like a stitch drawn neat. They shared
an apple without knives, sweetness and quiet enough. They paused
beside a fence line where frost traced each wire. Breath
rose thoughts eased, No one hurried the next step. Wind
moved across tall grass in slow bands. The sound felt
like a page turning. The hills listened and kept the moment.
A red maple leaf turned in the air and landed
upright on a rail. It trembled once, then rested, as
if it belonged. Some paths invite questions. This one invited patients.
They accepted the invitation and let the hour belong. Rowan
pointed at a hawk circling the ridge. It held the
air without effort. They watched until it became a dot,
and then sky Dan tightened a boot lace and smiled
at nothing in particular. Warmth lived in small habits done well.
Eliza counted seven slow breaths and felt the ground become
steady under both feet. Calm returned and stayed. Water under
the bridge kept steady time, No drum, no measure, only
the kind rhythm a body trussed in sleep. The sugar
house door creaked and then closed again. The sound folded
into the day like a stitch drawn neat. They shared
an apple without knives, sweetness and quiet enough. They paused
beside a fence line where frost traced each wire breath rose,
thoughts eased. No one hurried the next step. Wind moved
across tall grass in slow bands. The sound felt like
a page turning. The hills listened and kept the moment.
A red maple leaf turned in the air and landed
upright on a rail. It trembled once, then rested, as
if it belonged. Some parts invite questions. This one invited patients.
They accepted the invitation and let the hour be long.
Rowan pointed at a hawk circling the ridge. It held
the air without effort. They watched until it became a dot,
and then sky Dan tightened a bootlace and smiled at
nothing in particular. Warmth lived in small habits done well.
Eliza counted seven slow breaths and felt the ground become
steady under both feet. Calm returned and stayed. Water under
the bridge kept steady time. No drum, no measure, only
the kind rhythm a body truss in sleep. The sugar
house door creaked and then closed again. The sound folded
into the day like a stitch drawn neat. They shared
an apple without knives, sweetness and quiet enough. They paused
beside a fence line where frost traced each wire, breath rose,
thoughts eased. No one hurried the next step. Wind moved
across tall grass in slow bands. The sound felt like
a page turning. The hills listened and kept a moment.
A red maple leaf turned in the air and landed
upright on a rail. It trembled once, then rested, as
if it belonged. Some paths invite questions. This one invited patience.
They accepted the invitation and let the hour belong Rowan
pointed at a hawk circling the ridge. It held their
air without effort. They watched until it became a dot,
and then sky Dan tightened the boot lace and smiled
at nothing in particular. Warmth lived in small habits done well.
Eliza counted seven slow breaths and felt the ground become
steady under both feet. Calm returned and stayed water under
the bridge kept steady time. No drum, no measure, only
the kind rhythm a body trussed in sleep. The sugar
house door creaked and then closed again. The sound folded
into the day like a stitch drawn neat. They shared
an apple without knives, sweetness and quiet enough. They paused
beside a fence line where frost traced each wire, breath rose,
thoughts eased. No one hurried the next step. Wind moved
across tall grass in slow bands. The sound felt like
a page turning. The hills listened and kept the moment.
A red maple leaf turned in the air and landed
upright on a rail. It trembled once, then rested, as
if it belonged. Some paths invite questions, This one invited patience.
They accepted the invitation and let the hour be long.
Rowan pointed at a hawk circling the ridge. It held
the air without effort. They watched until it became a dot,
and then sky Dan tightened a boot lace and smiled
at nothing in particular. Warmth lived in small habits done well.
Eliza counted seven slow breaths and felt the ground become
steady under both feet. Calm returned and stayed. Water under
the bridge kept steady time, No drum, no measure, only
the kind rhythm a body trusts in sleep. The sugar
house door creaked and then closed again. The sound folded
into the day like a stitch drawn neat. They shared
an apple without knives, sweetness and quiet enough. They paused
beside a fence line where frost traced each wire. Breath rose,
thoughts eased, No one hurried the next step. Wind moved
across tall grass in slow bands. The sound felt like
a page turning. The hills listened and kept the moment.
A red maple leaf turned in the air and landed
upright on a rail. It trembled once, then rested, as
if it belonged. Some paths invite questions. This one invited patients.
They accepted the invitation and let the hour belong. Rowan
pointed at a hawk circling the ridge. It held the
air without effort. They watched until it became a dot,
and then sky Dan tightened a boot lace and smiled
at nothing in particular. Warmth lived in small habits done well.
Eliza counted seven slow breaths and felt the ground become
steady under both feet. Calm returned and stayed. Water under
the bridge kept steady time. No drum, no measure, only
the kind rhythm a body trusts in sleep. The sugar
house door creaked and then closed again. The sound folded
into the day like a stitch drawn neat. They shared
an apple without knives, Sweetness and quiet enough. If you
ever need the path, It knows how to find you
if you ever need the bench. It remembers how you sit.
If you ever need the rails, watch the fog. It
tells the truth when you listen, slowly, breathe in, hold
for a soft count, Breathe out. Let your shoulders drop,
let your jaw unclench, Let your hands go warm. Rest.
Now there is nothing you must solve before sleep. The
rails know their way through the dark, So do you.
Maple hollow will be right where you left it, warm
as a lamp on a porch, calm as a bench
under a maple. Ready when you are sleep well.
Speaker 3: You never.
Speaker 4: No movie U.
Speaker 5: M M.
Speaker 6: M USU.
Speaker 3: Mean you will us.
Speaker 2: You d.
Speaker 7: Us name.
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