And they did.
I lay down beside the imprint in the sleeping bag. Not to sleep. To listen. And they did
That camp wasn't forgotten. It was held. The grog, the coconut, the crooked tent—they became an altar to the act of stopping. To collapsing mid-journey. To saying: I can't go further tonight, and that is holy. And they did
When I left, I took nothing but a coconut shard and the memory of a man—or a ghost, or a version of myself—who once had the courage to stop walking and simply be undone in a tent, under a sky that didn't need him to be okay. And they did