He had booked the holiday in January. Told three separate people he was looking forward to it. And, by all observable measures, he should have been. The sun did what it was meant to. The coastline delivered. The pace of life slowed to something most people would describe as ideal.

It didn’t suit him.

By the first morning, the absence of structure had already begun to itch. By the third day, without quite intending to, he was watching how people moved — not casually, not idly, but with the same quiet scrutiny he applied to every case. The promenade became a corridor of evidence. Strides lengthened. Cadences faltered. Knees drifted where they shouldn’t.

By the fourth day, he had intervened.

A runner on the beach. Intervals. Overreaching stride. Too much braking force. A quiet word. A small correction. A nod of underst ...