He didn't tell anyone.
Not because he was hiding it.
Because there was nothing to announce.
It wasn't a decision that felt important enough to explain, just something that felt quietly necessary.
The next time he went to the community space, he arrived early.
Not on purpose.
Just… early.
The room was empty when he walked in. Chairs stacked in the corner. A table pushed against the wall with a kettle and a box of tea bags on top.
The air felt different without people in it.
Not alive yet.
Waiting.
He hesitated.
That pause came again.
He noticed it.
He stepped through it.
He unstacked a few chairs and set them in a loose circle.
Not a full one.
Just enough to make the room look like it was ready for something.
Then he waited.
People arrived slowly.
One by one.
Some familiar faces. Some new.
They sat.
They talked.
He listened.
At one point, someone paused mid-sentence.
Not stuck.
Considering.
He felt the impulse.
Not to respond.
To hold the space.
He didn't jump in.
He didn't fill the silence.
He waited.
The person continued.
The room shifted.
Subtly.
As if something had been allowed rather than pushed.
He noticed a few people glance at him.
Not in expectation.
In recognition.
Afterward, a woman he hadn't spoken to before approached him.
"Thanks for setting this up," she said.
"I didn't," he replied.
She smiled.
"Still. It helped."
He felt that land.
Not as praise.
As information.
The record waited until he was alone.
Then it updated.
Signal followed.
He let out a slow breath.
"So that's what that feels like," he whispered.
Not a breakthrough.
A step.
Small.
Quiet.
Real.
That night, lying in bed, he felt something he hadn't felt in a long time.
Not excitement.
Not confidence.
Trajectory.
The sense that his actions were now part of a line rather than a loop.
He didn't know where the line went.
But for the first time, he was walking along it.
Not being carried.