The words did not appear again that night.
Harvey noticed their absence more than their presence. He lay awake longer than usual, waiting for something to interrupt his thoughts, but nothing came. No lines. No brackets. Just his own breathing and the dull ache in his head.
In the morning, he checked his phone before getting out of bed. No missed calls. A message from his mother sat unread.
*Did you get home okay?*
Harvey replied after a moment.
*Yeah. I'm fine.*
He stared at the screen, then added another line.
*Just tired.*
That felt closer to the truth.
At Redfield Group, the day moved slowly. Harvey settled into his chair, opened his laptop, and went through the same routine he always had. Reports. Tables. Numbers that were meant to describe what people had already decided to do.
The project email was still there.
He didn't open it.
Instead, he worked on a comparison report for another team, checking projected timelines against actual outcomes. The differences were small but consistent. Delays here. Overconfidence there. Tiny decisions adding up over months.
Harvey paused, fingers resting on the keyboard.
This was familiar. This was safe.
During lunch, Emily sat across from him like she usually did. They talked about nothing important. Food. A show she'd started watching. Someone from another department who had quit suddenly.
"You're quieter than usual," she said.
Harvey shrugged. "Just thinking."
She watched him for a moment, then nodded. She didn't ask more.
That afternoon, Harvey made a decision.
It wasn't a big one.
He replied to a message from a client team earlier than he normally would. No delay. No overthinking. Just a short, clear response.
As soon as he hit send, the feeling came back.
Not excitement. Not fear.
Awareness.
The words appeared gently, almost casually, sitting inside his vision without blocking anything else.
[Decision point detected]
Harvey didn't freeze this time.
He kept his eyes on the screen and breathed slowly. The words stayed for a few seconds, then faded. Nothing followed them.
No outcome. No future.
Just the acknowledgment.
So this was how it worked.
Not when something dramatic happened. Not when he was scared or hurt. But when a path shifted, even slightly.
That night, his father called.
"You back at work already?" Richard asked.
"Yeah."
"You should take it easy."
"I am."
There was a pause on the line. "Work okay?"
"It's fine."
"That's good," his father said. "That's what matters."
After the call ended, Harvey sat quietly for a while. Fine. Enough. Unchanged.
He wondered how many times his father had chosen without realizing it.
Before bed, Harvey opened the notebook again.
He didn't write much. Just one line under the last.
*Small choices count.*
He closed the notebook and turned off the light.
No words appeared.
And for the first time since the accident, that didn't bother him.