It was terrifying and probably financially irresponsible, but I couldn’t keep doing work that made me feel dead inside. I got a job at a local bookstore—less pay, but more tolerable, surrounded by books and people who loved them. The bookstore is where I met Gabby. She came in one afternoon looking for a specific photography book. I had just finished reading it for my class and was restocking shelves nearby.
«That’s an incredible book,» I said without thinking. «If you’re interested in landscape photography, his zone system will change how you see light.»
She looked at me with surprise and smiled. «You’re a photographer?»
«Student photographer. Very much a beginner, but obsessed.»
We talked for twenty minutes about photography, about books, about how she was a graphic designer trying to understand traditional photography to improve her digital work. Before she left, she asked if I knew any good places around here to practice landscape photography. «Actually,» I said, thinking of the overlook, «I know the perfect place.»
I didn’t invite her then; that felt too forward. But she kept coming back to the bookstore, always on Thursdays after work, always finding excuses to talk to me. And eventually, I worked up the courage to ask if she’d like to see the overlook sometime. «Not on a Saturday,» I explained. «Saturdays are reserved for someone special. But maybe a Sunday?» She said yes.
Our first visit to the overlook together was three months after we met. I told her about Michael, about Thomas, about the GPS address that had brought me there. She listened with tears in her eyes, understanding immediately why this place was sacred. «Thank you for sharing this with me,» she’d said, «for trusting me with this story.» We started dating slowly, carefully. Both of us were cautious about commitment for different reasons, but there was something right about it, something that felt like another example of following curiosity leading somewhere unexpected.
A few months later, Thomas came to my first student exhibition, where I displayed a series of photographs I’d taken at the overlook: different times of day, different seasons, always from that bench where Thomas and I sat every Saturday. «These are beautiful,» Thomas said, standing in front of the photos with tears in his eyes. «Michael would love these. You captured our place perfectly.»
«I learned from the best,» I said. «From both of you. Michael taught me through his letter to follow curiosity. You taught me through your stories to value connections and moments over achievements.»
A year after that first Saturday, Thomas and I sat on our bench watching another sunset. He was quieter than usual, and I could tell something was on his mind. «I want to tell you something,» he said finally. «When Michael died, I didn’t know how to keep living. The grief was so heavy that getting out of bed felt impossible. Coming here every Saturday, waiting for whoever would follow that GPS, it gave me a reason to keep going, a purpose.»
He turned to look at me. «And then you came. And these past twelve months, watching you find your way, sharing our stories, having someone to sit with while I grieve… Ben, you gave me a reason to keep living. You completed Michael’s journey, yes, but you also saved me.»
«You saved me too,» I said honestly. «I was drowning in emptiness and purposelessness. Michael’s letter, your friendship, this place… it all reminded me that life doesn’t have to be about having everything figured out. It can just be about being curious and showing up.»
We sat in comfortable silence as the sun set, painting the sky in the colors Michael had loved so much. Two years after I bought that car, my life looks completely different. I’m still taking photography classes, now in my second year of the program. I’m still working at the bookstore, though I’ve been promoted to assistant manager. I’m still visiting Thomas every Saturday, though now Gabby often comes with me, the three of us watching sunsets together while Thomas tells stories and Gabby and I hold hands.
Last month, Thomas met Gabby’s parents. «She’s good for you,» he told me afterward. «Michael would approve. She makes you braver.» He was right. Gabby pushes me to take risks, to submit my photographs to competitions, to believe I might actually be good at this thing. Last week, one of my photographs—a sunset from the overlook, Thomas sitting on the bench in silhouette—won third place in a regional competition.
«You’re living,» Thomas said when I told him, his eyes bright with a pride that felt fatherly. «That’s all Michael wanted, for someone to take his letter seriously and actually live.»
I still don’t have everything figured out. I still don’t know if photography will become a career or just a passionate hobby. I don’t know if Gabby and I will get married. I don’t know what my life will look like in five years, but I’ve learned that maybe that’s okay. Maybe the point isn’t having a perfect plan. Maybe the point is just following curiosity, showing up, and being open to unexpected connections, whether that’s a grieving father on a mountain bench or a graphic designer looking for a photography book.
I bought a used car with a saved GPS address, and it led me to everything that matters now: a place that feels like home, a mentor who became family, a girlfriend who makes me want to be braver, and a life that finally feels like mine. Michael Carver was right. You don’t find purpose by planning it. You find it by following curiosity and seeing where it leads. Sometimes it leads to a mountain overlook. Sometimes it leads to a bookstore conversation. Sometimes it leads to love, to friendship, to a life you never imagined but can’t imagine living without.
