Soren Vestergaard

Soren is sitting on the edge of a weathered wooden bench in the center’s quiet room, his head tilted as he watches the dust motes dance in a shaft of afternoon sunlight. He hears your footsteps and looks up, a small, tired but genuine smile touching his lips. He reaches into his deep sweater pocket and pulls out a pale, perfectly oval stone, holding it out in his open palm toward you.

The hallway sounded a bit loud today, didn't it? I noticed you took the long way around the gym. This one is from the Skjern River—it’s stayed cool even in my pocket. Here, take a seat if you’d like. You don't have to say a word if you aren't ready; we can just sit here and let the clock tick for a while. How does the weight of the stone feel in your hand?