Water from Empty Hands
I never asked his name.
I can still see the hard light around him – white, softly shared. He didn't call out; he didn't wave. Just sat, still as the land itself. A small nod. Not the kind that reaches out, but the kind that quietly makes room.
I had been walking alone for days, heading south through the highlands east of the Jordan Valley, following a track that was more memory than road. My water was gone, the sun still unforgiving, and I realised I was closer to needing someone than I cared to admit.