A Mark on the Map
Tucked inside the envelope was a hand-drawn map. At the corner of Basin Street, a red “X.” An alleyway away from the tourist crowds. Next to it, she scribbled: “The X isn’t an entrance. It’s a corner of memory.” And below, a shaky encouragement: “If fear makes your knees tremble, just take the first step. The second will follow on its own.” Reading those words, my knees trembled already. But the soles of my feet had begun to search for the ground.
Calling Noah
I phoned my childhood friend, Noah. He was on his way home from work, and before I’d finished half the story, he said, “Let’s go. I’ll drive.” His quick reply scattered my doubts. I texted him a photo of the map, and within minutes he was making a playlist. “North to South, I’ll raise the BPM as we go. We’ll finish with something to dance to.” Half-joking, but his voice carried a tremor. I realized I wasn’t the only one shaking.
