Descanso Gardens before the crowds. One of LA's oldest gardens where ancient coastal oaks filter the morning light. The American follows paths worn by generations, each turn familiar yet somehow new.

Here in the foothills, where coastal fog meets mountain air, patterns slow to human pace. No screens. No feeds. Just the quiet weight of branches overhead, the subtle shift of shadows on dirt paths.

The trees speak to each other. They speak to him if he is quiet enough to listen.

His heart rate settles - 64 beats per minute, Claude notes. The walking meditation begins.

Some greet him on their morning circuit. Some lost in their own thoughts. A family passes, children's voices rising to the canopy. Korean, Spanish, Armenian float through the oak grove. Los Angeles speaks in hundred tongues among the ancient trees.

Understanding requires motion. Some thoughts need space to unfold.

Each visit unveils another layer. Each walk traces another circle of thought.

It is a time to find hope.