“I think I’m supposed to stay here a little longer,” he said, eyes drifting downstream like he could see something I couldn’t.
“No,” I said, more firmly than I meant to.
“Get off that thing. Slowly.”
He hesitated, then stood up. The moment his feet left the rock, the creek came back to life.
The current resumed its gentle gurgle, and the birds overhead picked up where they’d left off—like someone had hit play on the world again.
I helped him back to the bank, my heart pounding. I tried to laugh it off, said maybe we’d just spaced out and imagined it all. But Maceo’s wide-eyed stare told me he’d seen it too.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
I kept replaying the shimmer, the silence, the way Malachai had looked—so calm, so certain—as if something in that rock remembered him.
