He didn't announce it.
He just did something different.
The next time he arrived early again.
But this time, he didn't set the chairs in a loose circle.
He set them in a shape.
Not a tight one.
Not a rigid one.
But intentional.
A wide arc, open on one side, facing the center of the room.
A place to speak.
A place to listen.
A direction.
People noticed.
Not consciously.
Physically.
They sat where the shape suggested.
Not because he told them to.
Because shape is instruction.
He began.
Not with a topic.
With a boundary.
"This isn't a problem-solving space," he said. "It's not a workshop. It's not a debate."
A pause.
"It's a place to say what's actually happening for you. If that's useful, stay. If not, that's okay."
No one laughed.
No one objected.
Some people shifted in their seats.
A few stood up and quietly left.
That mattered.
He felt the loss.
He also felt the relief.
The room breathed differently now.
Not free.
Held.
Someone spoke.
Not with a story.
With a sentence.
"I feel like I'm pretending to be someone I'm not, and I'm tired."
The room went still.
Not awkward.
Present.
No one rushed to fix it.
No one reframed it.
No one softened it.
They let it be.
He felt something align in his chest.
This.
This was what he had been following.
The record stayed quiet.
That was how he knew he was close.
Afterward, people lingered.
Not to chat.
To sit.
To process.
One person thanked him.
Not for leading.
For naming.
On the way home, the city felt sharper.
Clearer.
Not louder.
More defined.
That night, the record updated.
Position established.
He nodded.
Claim.
Not ownership.
Orientation.
He had chosen a side.
Not of conflict.
Of meaning.
And that meant something would grow here now.
Something that could be seen.
And challenged.
And changed.
But not drift.
Not anymore.