Chapter 4 — Cookies by the Fountain

Eamon

The afternoon sun stretched long fingers through the canopy of trees, dappling the park in shifting gold. The fountain bubbled softly nearby, its rhythmic splashes blending with the rustle of leaves. Eamon sat on his usual bench near the pond, his sketchbook resting on his lap, its leather cover warm against his fingertips. This spot had become a retreat for him, a place where the city’s din softened to a hum and his thoughts could settle, if only briefly.