barbeque (10)

The stars came out slow. The kids passed out on picnic blankets. The music shifted from bass-heavy to bluesy. And Jacob stayed by the pit, tending the coals like a vigil. Not because he had to. Because it felt like the right thing to do.

Tomorrow, he would drive back to Austin. Return to offices and screens and deadlines that meant little in the face of fire and smoke and memory. But tonight, he was here.

The tongs in his hand were still warm. The pit crackled softly, alive. And the smoke—steady now—rose into the April sky like a promise.