Two men sat on the bank of the East River.
They said nothing. There was nothing to say. Hands laid still and silent in their laps. Mouths remained shut. Water lapped at their feet, the only sound in this corner of quiet.
What does one do when everything they've worked for collapses beneath them? How does one move on from something their entire life had centered around?
They could begin again. Rebuild. Resume. Work to regain what was lost. Start over with lessons learned, be even more efficient and secure than the last time. Eventually, they would reach the same level they were at before it all went wrong. Eventually, they would surpass it.
Or they could step away. Make a clean break. Try something radically different, instead of repeating the past. Sometimes, for a wound to heal, it must be broken again. Sometimes, a wound healed wrong is worse than the original injury. A second chance normally implied change.
The two men sat on the riverbank.
Perhaps they would resume their cause; feed that insatiable black hole of hate and vengeance.
Perhaps they would risk the second path, and chance upon healing and forgiveness.
Only time would tell.