It began on a trail neither of them had planned to walk. Elara had taken a wrong turn somewhere between the second and third ridge — she was certain about the map, less certain about the map's certainty. Oliver had been coming to this particular stretch of the Blue Ridge for years, and had learned to trust the path that feels right over the one marked in ink.

They met at a clearing where an old chestnut tree had fallen years before, its trunk now soft with moss and ferns. She was sitting on it, eating an apple, studying the sky with the expression of someone solving a problem that isn't a problem. He sat down on the other end. Neither of them said anything for a while.

Later, walking back together in the slow amber light of late afternoon, he asked her what she had been thinking about on the log. She said she had been thinking about how something could be completely broken and still be the best place to rest.

He thought about that for the rest of the walk. He thought about it for a long time after.