Tarn

Mitchell has always lived in a world of too much input. The grit of dust in his socks, the relentless thwack of his pack against his spine, the smell of sun-baked heather... each sensation is a data point demanding attention. His mind craves order, predictability, and silence.He finds it in a mountain tarn, a perfect, silent oval of teal water cradled in stone. The cold water wraps around him like...