Spend Time Like This

The first time Daniel’s phone died mid-call, he didn’t panic. He was hiking alone in the Blue Ridge Mountains—something his therapist had nudged him toward after months of burnout. No emails, no meetings, no Slack messages blinking like tiny red sirens. Just trees, wind, and silence.

Silence he hadn’t heard in years.

Daniel was 37, a software engineer turned product manager. His schedule was a spreadsheet of obligations: meetings stacked like bricks from 8 to 7, weekends spent networking or catching up on tasks that spilled over. He wasn’t a bad person—just a busy one. Or at least, that’s how he’d explained his absence at family dinners, his growing distance from old friends, and most of all, the slow unraveling of his marriage to Claire.

Three months ago, Claire had said, "I don’t need anything dramatic. I just want to feel like you’re with me again. Not just in the room, but here.”

Daniel had nodded, distracted, already glancing at his watch.

That was the night she left.

So now, three months later, here he was. Alone, on a trail that wound like a question mark through the woods. With no service, no signal, no buzzing urgency. Just a sky dimming toward dusk and a bench carved from fallen cedar. He sat, exhaled, and for the first time in months, he listened.

To the wind in the branches.

To the rhythm of his own breath.

To time, moving without measuring.

The next morning, he met her.

She was sitting on a log by the edge of a small lake that caught the morning like a mirror. Early 60s, gray curls under a woven hat, and a thermos beside her knee. She smiled without hesitation when she saw him.

“Coffee?” she asked, holding up a second mug.

Daniel hesitated. Strangers weren’t part of his routine. But routine had gotten him lost. He accepted.

“I’m Ruth,” she said. “I hike this trail every week. Keeps me from turning into dust.”

He chuckled. “Daniel. First time here. Trying to unplug, I guess.”

She nodded. “Ah. Unplugging from the world to plug into yourself. I like that.”

They drank in silence for a while. Ruth didn’t fill it with chatter. She simply was there, fully. Present. Like the trees. Like the lake.

After a long moment, she said, “Most people think time is a thief. But really, it’s a teacher. You just have to listen.”

Daniel looked at her. “And what has time taught you?”

She smiled. “That you don’t spend it the way you spend money. You invest it in moments. And the return is memory—or regret.”

That hit harder than he expected.

Over the next few days, Daniel returned to the trail. Not with any goal. Not to hit a step count or reach a peak. He walked without headphones. Sat for long minutes without checking his watch. Sometimes he found Ruth. Sometimes he didn’t.

But he was learning to sit with himself. To be.

One afternoon, while walking past a stream, Daniel remembered a moment with Claire. They’d been at the beach—years ago—lying on the sand, her head on his chest. She’d said, “If we could freeze one hour forever, I’d pick this one.”

He couldn’t even remember what he’d said in response. Probably something sarcastic. Maybe a joke. But he hadn’t said what he should have: I’d pick this one too.

The memory stung, but didn’t cripple him. Instead, it anchored him in the truth: he had let the minutes of his life be dictated by productivity apps and unread notifications. He had forgotten that presence was the only real gift.

On his last morning, Ruth was waiting at the lake again.

“You look lighter,” she said, pouring coffee.

Daniel smiled. “I feel...less scheduled.”

She laughed. “Good. Before you go, let me give you something.”

She pulled out a small object from her backpack. A simple brass pocket watch.

“It doesn’t work,” she said. “Stopped ticking years ago. I carry it to remind me that not all time has to be measured.”

Daniel turned it in his hand. The hands were frozen at 3:17.

“Why this time?”

She looked out at the lake. “That was the moment my husband told me he was dying. And the moment I decided to stop rushing through life and start living it.”

He nodded, heart heavy.

“Thank you,” he said. And meant it.

Daniel returned to the city. But something had changed.

He didn’t turn his phone on right away. Not for hours. Instead, he sat at a café, pocket watch in hand, just watching the world move. People rushing. Some holding hands. Some talking without really hearing each other.

Time didn’t feel like an enemy anymore. It felt like a resource.

That night, he called Claire. Not to beg. Not to fix. Just to say something he hadn’t said in years.

“I’m here. I mean, really here. If you want to talk.”

There was a long pause.

Then: “Come over.”

They talked for hours.

Not about blame. Not about work. But about now. About what they missed. What they still might have. What they could choose differently.

Claire held the pocket watch in her hand and said, “Maybe this is what we needed. A broken clock to remind us not to waste time.”

Over the following weeks, Daniel changed things.

He walked every morning. Sometimes with Claire. Sometimes alone.

He turned off email alerts after 7 p.m. He took his nephew to the park instead of checking Jira tickets. He learned how to cook something that took time—because now he had time. Or rather, he made time.

He started journaling. One entry just said:

"Spend time like this:

With intention.

With people who matter.

With eyes open, and the clock forgotten."

A year later, Daniel visited the same lake again. Ruth wasn’t there. A younger couple sat on her log, whispering. He smiled, walked to the water, and sat.

He didn’t take a photo. He didn’t post about it. He just looked at the stillness.

Then he pulled out the pocket watch, still frozen at 3:17.

And for a long, quiet while, he simply lived.