"He was your anchor," Dr. Ramesh said.

"And now I'm adrift," she whispered.

She was led to a room at the end of the hall. On the wall was a framed print of the Woodstock square, and beside it, a land acknowledgment. It felt rooted. Real.

Thriveworks in Woodstock wasn't a magic cure. It was just a building with blue signs and warm lights. But for Nora, it became the place where she stopped running. And in the quiet of a small counseling room, surrounded by the red clay hills of Georgia, she finally let herself begin to heal.

Today was different. Today, the thing she was running from—a tidal wave of grief over her father’s sudden passing—had finally caught up. She couldn’t outdrive it.

Nora hung her wet coat on the hook. "I have homework," she said. And she smiled—a real, tired, genuine smile.

For the first time in six months, Nora cried. Not the polite, single-tear kind of cry, but the ugly, heaving, can’t-breathe kind. Dr. Ramesh didn't hand her a tissue immediately. He let her have the moment.

With a sigh that tasted like defeat, she grabbed her wet umbrella and walked in.