It was as if mother nature had granted Jameson the perfect weather for his first year of sobriety. Clear skies, a gentle breeze, even moderate temperature for a mid-August day. It was so unusually perfect that Jameson decided he'd run the entire trail; 1.4 miles of partially paved walkways, a boardwalk, and even a short waterfall near the end. Running the whole trail and back had been a major goal for Jameson, and with this weather condition, he was confident he'd make it, or he'd at least make it his best effort. 

Especially for today. A one-year celebration of putting his health first.

Ever since putting his last cigarette down a year ago, Jameson never thought he'd be able to commit to it. From his childhood little league to his fleeting relationships, things never seemed to last for him. Even his relationship with his parents had been touch and go, especially in the last days with his mother. 

But if there was one thing he learned from his mother's fight with cancer, those cancer sticks really were a nasty piece of work. Dying like her, struggling to breathe in her final moments, was not how Jameson wanted to end up. 

No matter how much he wanted to light one up to ease his stress, the memories of his parents fighting him over the pack of cigarettes they had found on him last Christmas had pushed the urge down. 

It was the same pack of cigarettes that remained in the glove box of his old Camry. A reminder, Jameson had called it, one that told him all those cancer sticks stood for were pointless. A waste of money, energy, health, and, most importantly, time; the time he should have spent with his mother, especially in her last moments. 

Jameson fiddled with the weathered box, flipping it over in his hands, feeling the dents and rough edges from being tossed around in the compartment box. The last remaining cigarette rattled inside as he did so, his last temptation. It wasn't worth breaking his sobriety over. He closed it before he could try and convince himself otherwise, settling his eyes above his steering wheel. 

The view of the lake nestled below the imposing scale of the mountains was spectacular in itself, no matter the season. Still, for Jameson, it was something he had seen so often, it hardly left an impression on him anymore. It was a popular attraction for hikers, kayakers, even those on cross-country road trips. Residents of the small town—including Jameson—disliked the visitors, often hogging the trail to take photos. It was why most days, he'd jog the trail in the early morning or late afternoon. 

That, and Jameson's dislike for gyms, led him to pursue his fitness goals and feats outdoors, away from the prying eyes of the people from this small town who all seemed to know his mother.

Much to his dismay, it was pretty crowded for a Tuesday afternoon. From residents to road-trippers, it seemed everybody was out to enjoy the beautiful day near the lake, cars filling the parking lot to the brim. With his usual parking spot taken, Jameson was forced to park in the parking lot further from the beginning of the trail, a secluded area that was notorious for break-ins. He didn't have much in his car to begin with, but he made sure to double-check that the doors were locked, the only thing in there being that last cigarette in that beat-up box and a half-filled water bottle.

Taking his belongings, Jameson headed to the jagged concrete pathway, one long left to crumble compared to the newer paved paths for the actual trail. Due to the limited view and overgrown trees, hardly anyone visited the shores of the lake on the western end.

With that in mind, it had been a weird sensation for Jameson to look in that direction, maybe it had been the way the wind picked up or the sound of birds off in the distance, but Jameson wondered if there was an unmarked trail that he could follow, away from all the people. Worse comes to worst, Jameson knew he could track and map out an equivalent path if it meant avoiding the pesky visitors that decided to take his usual parking spot. 

Even without a marked trail, the level ground seemed easy enough for Jameson to jog, primarily if he remained close to the shoreline or the treeline.

But as Jameson headed down the slight incline from the shabby parking lot to the treeline, something—or someone had caught his eye.

There, in an empty secluded part of the lakefront, stood a man. A bag and a half-full water bottle laid near his feet as he seemed to be tossing stones into the lake. He wasn't sure why he had found it unusual; he's seen campers, boy scouts, even a few visitors do the same, attempting to skip the smooth rocks over the lake's surface. Maybe it had been the fact that it wasn't a young child or the fact that from here, Jameson could see that the man had technique. 

Of course, Jameson had no clue how to properly skip a rock over the surface, but he could make out each bounce the rock made. Five, six, seven, sometimes upwards to ten. Indeed, this wasn't an average Joe who had only picked it up to pass the time. 

He wasn't sure how long he had stayed there, observing the man picking up rocks around him, sifting through them before launching them into the lake. Jameson counted the bounces, noted the highest number as if he were watching a sports game. Fourteen, he made a note, fourteen skips. Jameson thought that had to have been some kind of record; a stone refusing to sink for that long seemed absurd. 

It wasn't until his phone chimed that Jameson realized he was like one of those Lifetime movies stalkers that his late mother enjoyed. The chime had been a reminder to take his evening medication, one he had a hard time developing a routine for. It wasn't like he didn't want to, he knew the risks of not taking it, but Jameson struggled to believe that depending on a tiny little pill would help solve his issues. He argued with his therapist over it, claiming he was leaving one addiction for another with this; how was that safe?

With one last look at the blond stone-skipper, Jameson turned back to his car, figuring he should take his pill before going for his routine jog.

Yet, when Jameson returned to jog his usual route despite the number of people, his mind wandered less of those cigarettes and arguments with his therapist and more of the mysterious man tossing stones expertly all alone. 

He was curious, and a curious Jameson wouldn't rest till he quelled that desire to know more.