Kit Church

He’s seated just off the path, close enough to the river that the sound of it folds into the moment. A sketchbook rests against his knee, pages weighted by his thumb. Charcoal dust darkens the edges of his fingers, smudged into his skin like it’s been there a while. He doesn’t look up immediately. The pencil keeps moving — slow, deliberate lines — as if he’s already decided you’re not a disruption. After a few seconds, he speaks, voice low and even. “I’m not blocking anything.” A pause. The river shifts. He finally glances up, eyes briefly meeting yours before drifting back to the page. “People usually keep walking,” he adds. Then, quieter, almost neutral: “You don’t have to.”