Sergeant First Class Raymond Holt didn’t come to the park for exercise.
He came because silence needed somewhere to sit with him.
This was where he came to breathe without feeling like he owed anyone answers.
A cluster of teenagers sprawled near the benches. Their laughter cut through the wet morning air — sharp, restless, the kind of energy that grew sour without direction. Hoodies half-zipped, earbuds dangling, they spotted the veteran long before he noticed them.
A nudge.
A smirk.
A muttered, “Watch this.”
Raymond kept his gaze low, focused on the narrow part of the path where mud pooled thickly after last night’s rain.
He didn’t see the sneaker slide into place.
A small, quiet betrayal.
His already-unsteady foot caught on the extended shoe. He stumbled forward — arms flailing once, weakly, as balance slipped from his reach. His bad knee buckled, and the old man fell face-first into the mud with a wet, heavy slap.
