No lesson rose to correct the imbalance.
The world did not lean in to weigh which of the two had mattered more.
The one who paused would never know what had been avoided. The one who did not would spend years discovering what had been set in motion, piece by piece, in conversations that circled but never quite named the source.
Neither would be summoned to account by anything larger than themselves.
And that, quietly, was the point.
Time moved on in increments too small to dramatize. Repairs were made without being called healing. Arguments resumed without being framed as betrayals. People made decisions and then lived inside them, discovering—sometimes with relief, sometimes with regret—that responsibility did not end when the choosing did.
The reckoning was no longer spoken of as if it were a moment.
It was referred to the way one refers to weathered stone steps: Watch your footing there.
Or to a stretch of road known for sudden fog: Pay attention.
