Page 115 of The Yoga Teacher

He wasn’t expecting anyone.

He crossed the room, opened the door—and found Tristan leaning against the frame, hands in his pockets, a skeptical look on his face.

Daniel blinked. “How the hell did you—?”

Tristan stepped inside uninvited. He looked around the cramped room, brow rising. “Jesus, man.”

“Yeah,” Daniel muttered, closing the door behind him. “Luxury suite.”

Tristan turned in a slow circle, taking in the sad twin bed, the wall of campaign drafts, the laptop still open. “This where you’ve been hiding?”

Daniel crossed his arms. “What do you want?”

Tristan shrugged. “I was curious. Jenna says you’re ‘on leave’.”

Daniel didn’t reply. He walked back to the desk and clicked his laptop closed.

Tristan’s gaze flicked over the campaign drafts. “What is all this?”

Daniel hesitated. Then, simply said, “Work.”

Tristan stepped closer. “This is for a garden project?”

“It’s not just a garden,” Daniel said, his tone sharper than he meant. “It’s a nonprofit. Youth development. Community outreach. We’re helping seniors connect with kids who don’t have stable homes. Teaching them to grow food, share stories, manage money, build self-worth. Hannah’s vision. I’m just… packaging it.”

Tristan blinked. “You’re branding it.”

Daniel nodded. “Yeah. Pro bono. Volunteer-based. I don’t need credit.”

For a long beat, Tristan didn’t say anything. He picked up one of the fliers Daniel had designed—bold colors, clean text, a tagline at the bottom.

“Damn,” Tristan muttered. “This is actually good.”

Daniel almost laughed. “Thanks for the glowing endorsement.”

“I’m serious,” Tristan said. “This is better than half the decks we pitch to clients.”

Daniel shrugged. “Because it’s not for clients. It’s for people.”

Tristan studied him. “You’ve really changed, huh?”

Daniel didn’t answer right away. He peeled a post-it off the wall and crumpled it in his hand. “No. I think this is who I was supposed to be the whole time. I just got lost.”

Daniel looked around the room—cheap wood, peeling wallpaper, a stack of unpaid invoices for seed kits and laminated outreach cards—and then down at his own hands.

“I was proud of my job because it paid well,” he said. “Because people respected me. But what I do now?” He nodded toward the flyer. “It actually matters.”

Tristan looked at him, quieter now. “You think she sees it?”

Daniel didn’t answer.

Because that wasn’t the point.

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The last of the folding chairs clattered into place. Daniel straightened, rubbing the back of his neck as the sun dipped low behind the building, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. The kids were gone. The seniors had been driven home. The leftover lemonade sat sweating on a plastic table.

He was alone. Or so he thought.

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