The River at DawnThomas woke before the sun.Not because age had stolen the luxury of sleeping late, though it often had, nor because the journey waiting beyond the mountain filled him with restless anticipation. He had awakened at this same hour for more than twenty-three years, greeting each morning in silence before the rest of the house stirred, allowing himself a few precious moments to stand alone beneath the eastern sky while Eleanor's favorite kettle slowly warmed upon the stove, because routine had become the quiet language through which he continued speaking to the woman whose absence had never truly left the house.This morning felt different.Not because he expected answers.Because, for the first time in half a century, he no longer feared the questions.The mountain remained wrapped in the pale blue stillness that exists only in the hour before sunrise. Mist drifted lazily through the valley below,
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