"Enough to matter," she says. "Not enough to erase human agency."
She taps her heel lightly against the concrete, as if testing the edge. "But you didn't come here to talk about the world. You came to talk about you."
I nod. "Yeah. I did."
"Then ask."
I take a breath. "Why did my life look the way it did? Before all this. Before you."
She tilts her head. "Because you kept choosing the hardest possible path. Not out of bravery. Out of habit. You got used to losing. You got used to pain. You treated it like gravity."
"That's not exactly flattering."
"It's honest," she says. "You were capable of more, but you never believed it long enough to act on it. You kept trying to outrun your own shadow."
I look down at the river. "And the debt. The sharks. The spiral. Was that just me being stupid?"
"Not stupid," she says. "Just tired. You were carrying too much for too long. You stopped looking for exits. You stopped imagining anything better. You let the world shrink around you."
I swallow. "And you showed up because I was dying."
"Yes," she says. "But not just because of that. You were at a crossroads. Your story was about to collapse in on itself. And I was assigned to observe you. I do not like failing assignments."
"So you intervened."
"I intervened because it mattered," she says. "Not because you were special. Not because you were chosen. Because the moment required it."
I sit with that. It feels sharp, but not cruel.
I ask the next question quietly. "Was I supposed to die that night?"
She considers it. "You could have. You were close enough that the difference between living and dying was a breath. But nothing in you wanted to give up. Even when everything else was falling apart."
"So I wasn't saved because of destiny."
"No," she says. "You were saved because you refused to disappear. You fought harder than you realized. I just gave you a handhold."
I let out a slow breath. "And the power. Why me?"
She shrugs. "Some humans are born with it. Most never realize it. You did. Eventually. Barely."
"That's it?"
"That is it," she says. "You were not chosen for greatness. You were not chosen for tragedy. You were chosen because you were already on the edge of something. God saw potential. Not a plan. Potential."
I look at her. "So what am I supposed to do with that?"
"Live," she says. "Make choices. Use the power when it makes sense. Do not use it when it does not. Learn yourself. Learn your limits. Learn what you want. You have spent most of your life reacting. Try acting for once."
I breathe out a laugh. "You make it sound simple."
"It is not simple," she says. "But it is yours."
The wind moves across the rooftop. The river below churns, the same sound that swallowed me once. It feels different now. Less like an ending. More like a reminder.
I ask one last question. "Do you think I can handle what comes next?"
She smiles. Not soft. Not warm. But real. "If I thought you were going to crumble, I would not waste my time."
"That your version of encouragement?"
"It is the best you are getting."
We stand. The rooftop feels lighter. The night feels thinner.
"See you later," I say.
"You will," she says. "Try not to oversleep again. It is embarrassing."
The world fades. The river dissolves. Her voice lingers.
"Wake up."
I open my eyes to sunlight and the clatter of the train. Too late for breakfast. Just in time for lunch. My cabin feels small but steady.
I pack my things. Walkman. Tapes. Scriptures. Notebook. Everything that matters. I grab lunch from the dining car, eat quickly, and return to finish packing.
The announcement comes over the speakers.
My stop is next.
I step off the train onto the platform, the weight of the past behind me and the shape of the future waiting ahead.