Steps Forward
Sergio stood at the edge of his driveway, phone in hand, staring down the quiet, leaf-strewn road that led to the harbor. The late September air was cool, tinged with the smell of damp earth and the first hints of winter. Lake Erie was only three miles away, a place he’d gone a thousand times before, but tonight was different. Tonight, he needed the walk. He needed the beer.
He scrolled through his contacts, hoping someone might answer, someone who could drive him down to the old pub by the harbor—Murphy’s Place. It was a spot he’d frequented in better days, back when life felt less like a cage. But now, it was just a distant reminder of the way things had changed.
The first call went to voicemail. “Hey, this is Dan. Leave a message.” Sergio didn’t bother. He tried a few more numbers—each one met with the same silence, or a polite but firm excuse. “Busy tonight, Sergio. Maybe another time.”
He let out a long sigh, shoving the phone into his jacket pocket. No one was coming. It seemed fitting, really. In the last year, most of his friends had drifted away, and those who hadn’t were more like acquaintances now—people with lives too busy for someone who’d become a shadow of his former self. It was easy to let that happen, Sergio thought, when you spent more time with a bottle than with people.
He started walking, his footsteps heavy on the pavement. The streetlights were spaced far apart, leaving long stretches of darkness between them. Sergio welcomed it. The shadows felt like a shroud, something to hide in, away from the prying eyes of a world that no longer made sense.
As he walked, the memories crept in. The accident. The year he’d spent trying to piece his life back together after losing his wife, Ellen. The guilt, the what-ifs that gnawed at him day and night. He’d been driving that night, too tired from work, too stubborn to admit he needed rest. And then the truck, the blinding lights, and the sound of metal tearing like paper.
They told him it wasn’t his fault, that it was a freak accident, but the words never reached him. They couldn’t undo the damage, couldn’t bring her back. So, he’d let the grief consume him, finding solace only in the numbness that came from a bottle.
The harbor came into view, its lights flickering in the distance like tiny beacons. Sergio felt a pull toward it, like it was calling him, offering some small comfort. He reached Murphy’s Place, its neon sign buzzing in the dark. Inside, the warmth and noise greeted him like an old friend. He ordered a beer, the bartender nodding as if he knew. Everyone knew, in a place like this.
But as Sergio lifted the glass to his lips, he paused. The walk had stirred something in him, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. A small, insistent voice that whispered: enough.
He set the beer down, untouched, and walked out of the bar. The night was cold, the air sharp in his lungs as he headed back the way he’d come. Each step felt lighter, the darkness less oppressive. He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, didn’t have any grand plans to turn his life around. But as he walked back toward his empty home, Sergio knew one thing: he was done running.
The walk had changed something in him, something vital. It wasn’t about the beer, or the harbor, or the friends who no longer answered his calls. It was about the simple act of moving forward, one step at a time. And for the first time in a long time, Sergio felt like he could keep walking.
