Part 1 of 6: The Quiet Run
I tied my laces and stepped onto the park path just after noon, hoping a simple jog would clear my mind and shake off the stress of the week. The air was unnaturally still—no rustle of leaves, no chatter of fellow runners—just the rhythmic thud of my own footsteps.
About half a mile in, I rounded the small pond and saw her: an elderly woman seated on one of the weathered benches, her back ramrod straight, a faded floral shawl draped tightly around her shoulders. She looked out of place, as if she’d been waiting for hours.