Richard's Arc

Chapter 7 of 7

Richard walked along the canal path, hands deep in his pockets. The water moved dark and steady beside him. He'd left the brewery an hour ago, needed to clear his head after dumping another batch. His fingers found the bottle caps from yesterday, still rattling in his pocket. Up ahead, the path opened to a small park where families gathered on weekends. He spotted the old bandstand at the center, painted green years ago, now faded but still standing. Musicians played there sometimes, working through bad notes until they got it right. Richard sat on a bench and watched a father help his daughter climb the bandstand steps. She stumbled twice, laughed, tried again. The sour beer recipes weren't going to perfect themselves overnight. But they'd get there if he kept showing up, kept adjusting, kept brewing. Richard stood and turned back toward the brewery. The walk had done its job. A group of locals had gathered near a flat tile set into the ground at the park's edge. The stone showed carved grass and wildflowers, worn smooth by years of feet. Richard had seen people sit there before when they needed quiet. He walked over and found a spot. The stone felt cool through his jeans. Around him, someone had set up a portable stove, warming a pot of wine that smelled like oranges and cinnamon. A woman ladled cups and passed them around. Richard took one and sipped. The heat spread through his chest. The talk around him was easy. Someone mentioned a bakery that burned through three ovens before getting the temperature right. Another talked about a tailor who ripped out the same seam six times in one day. Richard listened and felt his shoulders drop. Everyone here had failed at something. They'd all kept going anyway. He finished the wine and set the cup down, nodding his thanks. On his way back through town, Richard passed the square. A stone dragon stood tall in the center, wings spread and scales sharp under the streetlights. The plaque at the base honored a brewer from decades ago who'd turned his small operation into something known across the world. Richard stopped and looked up at the statue. That brewer had probably dumped bad batches too. Probably lost orders and money and sleep. But he'd figured it out, one brew at a time. Richard turned toward home. Tomorrow he'd start fresh with a new batch, slower this time, patient. The sour beers would come together. He just had to trust the process.