Page 36 of Stolen Harmony
“Take care of yourself, Eli,” he said, and the use of my nickname felt like a violation. “And remember what I said about change. Sometimes it's better to embrace it before it embraces you.”
I left without another word, stepping out into air that felt twenty degrees colder than it had when I'd arrived. The wind cut through my jacket like it was made of paper, but the chill was nothing compared to the ice in my chest.
Victor's warning had been clear enough. Stay away from Rowan, or face the consequences. The studio, my livelihood, my place in this town that had been my home for forty-eight years, all of it could disappear if I didn't play by the rules that men like Victor had written.
But what Victor didn't understand was that some things were worth the risk.
The waterfront was quieter, less contaminated by progress. The tide was low, exposing the mudflats where clams buried themselves and seagulls picked through the debris left by the last storm. The air smelled like salt and seaweed and the particular funk of low tide that tourists complained about but locals had learned to love.
That's when I saw him.
Rowan sat on one of the weathered benches near the duck pond, shoulders hunched against the wind, tossing torn bits of bread toward a cluster of mallards that had congregated near the water's edge. Even from a distance, I could see the tension in his posture, the way he held himself like he was braced for a blow that might come from any direction.
A brown paper bag sat beside him on the bench, the neck of a beer bottle visible at the top. Day drinking wasn't unusual for Rowan, from what I'd observed, but something about the careful way he was rationing the bread suggested this was less about getting drunk and more about having an excuse to sit still.
He glanced up as I approached, our eyes meeting for a fraction of a second before he looked back at the ducks. No greeting, no acknowledgment beyond that brief moment of recognition. Just a subtle shift in his posture that said he was aware of my presence but wasn't going to make it easy.
I sat down on the other end of the bench without asking permission, leaving enough space between us that we weren't crowding each other but close enough that conversation was possible. The wood was cold beneath me, warped by years of weather and worn smooth by countless other people who'd come here to think or hide or feed the ducks when they didn't know what else to do with their hands.
For several minutes, we sat in silence. Rowan continued methodically tearing pieces from what looked like half a sandwich, throwing them toward the water. The ducks paddled closer, their movements creating ripples that spread across the surface of the pond in ever-widening circles.
“She used to bring me here,” Rowan said finally, his voice so quiet I almost missed it over the sound of the wind in the trees. “When I was little. Made me feed the ducks even when I didn't want to, said it was good for me to do things that didn't matter.”
I found myself holding my breath, afraid that speaking might break whatever spell had allowed him to share even that small piece of his past.
“She thought feeding them was important,” he continued, his eyes still fixed on the water. “Said it taught patience,or responsibility, or some other bullshit that was supposed to make me a better person.”
I could hear the pain underneath the cynicism, the way his voice caught slightly on the word “bullshit” like he was testing whether I'd judge him for speaking ill of the dead.
“She once laughed so hard she cried because a duck chased her halfway across the park,” I said, the memory surfacing without invitation. “She'd brought stale donuts instead of bread, and apparently they were too sweet. The duck followed her all the way to the parking lot, honking like it was personally offended.”
Rowan's head tilted slightly, and I caught the ghost of a smile threatening the corners of his mouth before he pushed it away. “She never told me that.”
“She was embarrassed. Said it wasn't dignified for a grown woman to be terrorized by waterfowl.” I found myself smiling at the memory, the first genuine smile I'd managed in days. “But she kept bringing donuts anyway. Said the ducks had opinions and she respected that.”
The silence that followed was different from the one before. Softer, maybe. Less charged with the possibility of explosion. Rowan continued feeding the ducks, but his movements had lost some of their mechanical quality, become more natural.
“I used to hate coming here,” he said, tearing another piece of bread. “Thought it was stupid, sitting by a pond full of dirty water throwing food at birds that would forget you existed the second you ran out of snacks.”
“What changed your mind?”
He was quiet for so long I thought he wasn't going to answer. Then: “Nothing changed my mind. I still think it's stupid. But sometimes stupid things are the only ones that make sense.”
I understood what he meant. There was something about the ritual of it, the simple act of feeding creatures that asked for nothing but bread and expected nothing but bread, that felt honest in a way that human relationships rarely did.
“She brought me here the day before I left for New York,” Rowan said suddenly, his voice so quiet I had to strain to hear it over the wind. “Last time we...” He stopped, shook his head. “Last real conversation we had.”
I waited, afraid that speaking might break whatever had opened up between us.
“I was being a shit about it. About leaving, about her not understanding why I had to go.” His hands stilled on the bread. “She said she was proud of me, and I told her pride wasn't going to pay my rent.”
The pain in his voice was raw, unguarded. “What did she say to that?”
“That love wasn't supposed to be practical. That the best things in life were the ones that didn't make sense on paper.” He let out a bitter laugh. “Classic her, right? Always believing in things that couldn't be measured.”
A particularly aggressive duck had claimed territory near our feet, honking warnings at any other bird that dared to come too close to the falling crumbs. Rowan watched it with something that might have been amusement.
“That one reminds me of someone,” he said, and I couldn't tell if he was talking about himself or me or someone else entirely.
