Summer was coming to an end. At least, that’s what Oscar had convinced me of, and the increasingly frequent downpours and dropping temperatures seemed to confirm it.

About two weeks had passed since I’d last seen Selena. Every night before bed, a bitter frustration gnawed at me—we’d parted on such a sour note. And yet, she’d only ever treated me with good intentions.

Oscar kept insisting the hippie girl wasn’t holding a grudge and might even visit again someday, but my memory—much like the relentless rains—kept tormenting me with fragments of the past. Reminding me how I used to snap at people, with or without reason, completely unable to control my emotions or stop myself in time.

Humility was never part of my communication skills.

After nights spent stewing in regret, I’d throw myself into work each morning, hoping to exhaust my body enough to escape the insomnia.

I’d fixed the roof—just in time before the rainy season. Patched every crack and hole in the cabin. Whitewashed the ceilings, repainted the walls, buying all the supplies I needed from the local hardware store… on credit. At this point, I’d lost track of how many people in the area I owed. Honestly, drowning in the lake would’ve been easier than tallying up my debts to the entire village.

As for that strange, recurring incident, Oz still hadn’t given me a straight answer, brushing it off as another one of my memory lapses.

Every time I felt like I was on the verge of understanding—of remembering something—I’d end up back in the lake. Eventually, it became automatic. I’d just swim out calmly, no panic, no struggle.

Looks like humility was finally starting to sink in.

"I love the quiet here," the kid rubbed his ear, still smeared with a streak of lime-green paint.

The entire time I'd been fixing up the place, Oz had been helping me. That restless little runt couldn't sit idle for even half an hour. So when it came time to paint, he'd insisted on picking the color for his own walls and joining in.

He wasn't exactly a natural at it. His brushstrokes were uneven, some patches darker than others. But then it hit me—it looked better this way. Like the kid was just starting his journey as an artist, and this was his first stab at impasto.

"I've noticed most folks around here are pretty meek," I said.

"Wrong," Oz kept scratching his paint-stained ear. "Wouldn't call 'em meek. Just… calm."

"I envy that," I plucked a dry maple leaf from the pile we were sitting on and dropped it into the lake, watching it drift away.

"Save your envy for Kurt," Oscar snorted.

"Don't bring him up."

I still hadn't let go of the idea of tracking that guy down to talk about the motorcycle—the one we needed to reclaim from those shady mechanics.

"In silence, you hear more," Oz said, eyes following the floating leaf. "We keep quiet so we don't miss what matters. No point wasting attention on the same noise looping over and over. And we always remember the golden rule."

"Which is?"

"Noise is contagious," Oz shrugged and sprawled across the dry leaf pile, staring at the sky. "It only takes one loud argument in a crowd before the dissonance infects everyone, turning cognitive."

I immediately remembered my bar fight (one of many) and felt uneasy. Trying to "drown" in loud crowds to avoid being alone with my thoughts in silence had always been my default.

"Do you know where that Vance lives? The one the illusionists mentioned?" It suddenly came to me.

"Yeah. Why?"

"Frank mentioned his wife left him for some Vance. We should pay them a visit. Maybe…" I reasoned.