Fishing for Feelings

The scent of pine needles and damp earth clung to Braiden’s worn flannel shirt, a comforting aroma that was starting to feel like home. We were perched on the edge of the old dock, our legs dangling over the murky, still water of Miller’s Pond. The late afternoon sun, honey-thick, cast long shadows that stretched and distorted the reeds along the bank. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that wasn’t empty, but full of the hum of unseen insects and the gentle lapping of water against the pilings. Braiden, as usual, was patient, his gaze fixed on the tip of his fishing rod, a silent sentinel against the backdrop of the fading day.

“Anything biting?” I asked, my voice soft, not wanting to break the spell of tranquility.

He didn’t look up, a small smile playing on his lips. “Patience, Barrel Racer. That’s the key. You can’t rush a good catch.”