I sat on a bench under a streetlamp and stared at nothing.
At fifty-five years old, I suddenly felt both too old and too young.
Too old to start over.
Too young to believe my life was finished.
Trent’s words circled in my head.
Predictable.
Safe.
Old.
I had spent thirty years as a nurse. I had held the hands of dying strangers. I had cleaned wounds, comforted families, worked through holidays, and learned how fragile the body could be. I had thought safe was a beautiful thing.
Safe meant steady.
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