He stopped a few paces short.

He walked toward the rock not because it was a destination, but because it was present—fixed, indifferent, offering no meaning beyond its refusal to move.

The sand held his footsteps briefly, then released them. Each step reduced something. The horizon did not respond. The water kept its own interval. Light moved first, ahead of thought—flattening urgency, making looking sufficient. Not beauty. Not escape. Cues.

As he drew closer, the familiar ease registered. The beach had already arranged the sequence. Walk. Look. Stop. No branching. No explanation. The role arrived without signal, as if it had been waiting for the effort to cease.

He thought of rooms and doors, of days conducted or left unresolved. Of places that permit quiet and those that require speech just to remain intact. Here, nothing asked for narration. The rock did not need approach. It did not resolve anything. It marked a pause the landscape was willing to maintain.

He stopped a few paces short. That distance held. No arrival. No claim. Standing where motion could end without resistance.

WE&P by: EZorrillaMc&Co.