Before Theo ever arranged Minnette’s first bestowal or moved into the Ponder House apartment, Theo sought out a private place along the Oxbow River to sit and watch the water with minimal distraction. Theo chose a bench sheltered beneath a large chestnut oak, imagining it might be old enough to have stood near the town’s Civil War-era turmoil.

Over the course of a year in Golden, Theo watched the oak move through a full cycle of seasons, and the tree became a steady companion that reinforced Theo’s practice of stillness and listening. When Theo had unobligated evenings—especially in spring and fall—Theo walked from Ponder House to the river and timed arrival precisely fifteen minutes before sunset, always facing west.

Theo reveals this ritual was not new: Theo had kept the same sunset observance for five decades in every place he lived, often beside rivers around the world, remaining empty-handed and watching from the quarter hour before sunset until the first evening star appeared. Theo compares the sky over moving water to Monet’s ever-changing Giverny, describing a lifelong pull toward the western horizon when day dissolves into night.

Theo admits the practice once “saved” him, and the chapter turns to the source of that need. Decades earlier, Theo received news that Theo’s ten-year-old daughter had been killed, a loss that still leaves Theo with flashes of dizziness, shortness of breath, and disorientation.

Theo remembers the child, Tita, as the unexpected treasure of a loveless marriage and the center of Theo’s life. As Theo’s fortunes rose and business kept Theo away, Theo began reshaping life to be near Tita, making reunions the moments around which Theo organized existence; even Theo’s affection for Theo’s wife grew in gratitude for the gift she had borne.