The first thing AJ noticed when he woke up was the silence. Not the comfortable kind, like Sunday mornings with fresh coffee and a breeze through an open window - but the hollow kind. The kind that made every sound too loud, every breath too conscious. The hum of the refrigerator down the hall. The soft creak of the building settling. His own heartbeat, slow but persistent, like it was asking him a question he couldn't answer.
He rolled onto his side and blinked at the ceiling. 6:41 a.m. The city hadn't started moving yet. But he had.
He didn't linger in bed - not because he was eager to start the day, but because staying there meant thinking, and thinking usually led him to places he didn't want to go. So, he moved through his routine like clockwork. Brushed his teeth. Shaved. Pulled on dark jeans and a grey Henley. Poured himself black coffee in the kitchen, leaning against the counter as he sipped it slowly, eyes fixed on the skyline beyond the glass.
It was a grey morning. Not stormy, not bright. Just… quiet. He took his coffee to the small desk by the window, flipping open his laptop with a practiced touch. Emails waited in his inbox - clients, contractors, permits needing approval. None of it urgent. None of it interesting. His mouse hovered for a moment before he let the lid fall shut again. Instead, he reached for his sketchbook.
Half a page was filled with a lighthouse. The lines had grown darker since last night - bolder, angrier. He'd added weather-worn cliffs, waves battering the rocks beneath. It was like his pencil had known what his words couldn't say. AJ let out a slow breath and ran a hand through his hair. A few more greys had shown up near his temples. They didn't bother him. If anything, they suited him. Proof that time was passing, even when everything else felt stuck.
The city felt too tight this morning. Too tall. Too close. He grabbed his phone, thumb scrolling without intention until he landed on a community events page he'd bookmarked but never really read. Farmer's markets, pottery classes, film screenings—he kept scrolling. Then he saw it.
"Trail & Timberline: A local hiking collective for city souls seeking quiet paths."
Below it was a simple photo—sunlight breaking through pine trees, boots on damp earth, smiles caught mid-laughter. AJ clicked the link. Weekly group hikes, open to all experience levels. Every Saturday. Meet just outside the city at the base of Oldpine Ridge. Bring water, good shoes, and curiosity. There was something about the phrasing that caught him. Not the marketing kind of charm, but something… real. Unpolished. Like someone who meant it had written it. His cursor hovered again. He thought of the blueprint still waiting on his office desk. Of Serena's side of the bed - still made, still cold. Of the clock ticking through hours that never seemed to matter.
Then he clicked Join.
By noon, AJ was standing at the edge of a gravel parking lot at Oldpine Ridge, lacing up his boots under a pale sun. The city had disappeared behind him about twenty minutes ago - its noise, its pace, its weight. Here, the air smelled of damp bark and wild things. Pine and moss. Soil and silence. A few cars were parked nearby, and a small group had begun to gather around a wooden signpost that marked the trailhead. AJ spotted flannel shirts, backpacks, thermoses. Most of them were chatting in easy, informal clusters - friends who had clearly done this before. He stood a little apart, adjusting the strap on his bag, hands tucked into his jacket pockets.
This was out of character for him. He didn't usually do groups. Didn't go looking for strangers to spend his Saturdays with. But there was something about the idea of getting lost in the woods with people who didn't know his name, didn't know his marriage or his job or how put-together he was supposed to be - it appealed to something raw and restless in him.
He shifted his weight as a few more people arrived. Laughter carried across the clearing - light and unforced. Someone cracked open a thermos and offered a cup of coffee to another hiker. A woman was checking her camera lens. A man in his sixties adjusted his hiking poles with practiced ease. The group was varied - young, old, alone, coupled. No one seemed out of place. Which meant maybe he wasn't either.
A clipboard was passed around for sign-ins. When it reached AJ, he scribbled:
Adrian Carlson Jr. – First timer.
He passed it on and took a long look at the forest ahead. The trail disappeared between tall pines, their branches filtering the sun into long, slanted shafts of gold. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called. Wind rustled the leaves like a whispered invitation. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in the woods. Not since his twenties. Not since that camping trip with his sister's family, where they roasted marshmallows and told ghost stories until the kids fell asleep by the fire. He remembered the way the stars looked that night—how impossibly close they felt when nothing stood between him and the sky. That memory tugged at something inside him. Something he'd been missing without realizing it.
"Alright, folks," called a voice from the front—a woman with a whistle around her neck and a trail map in her hand. "Let's get started. We've got about seven miles round trip, moderate incline, and plenty of time to take it slow. Stick together, look out for one another, and breathe it in. This is the easy part of the week."
A few cheers and scattered applause. Then boots began to crunch gravel. AJ adjusted the strap on his bag and stepped forward. As the group filtered onto the trail, he found himself walking near the middle—close enough to feel part of it, far enough to stay in his thoughts. The ground was soft beneath his feet. The forest opened around him. And for the first time in a long time, the quiet didn't feel empty. It felt like space. It felt like something beginning.
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