He had booked the holiday in January. Told three separate people he was looking forward to it. And, by all observable measures, he should have been. The sun did what it was meant to. The coastline delivered. The pace of life slowed to something most people would describe as ideal.

It didn’t suit him.

By the first morning, the absence of structure had already begun to itch. By the third day, without quite intending to, he was watching how people moved — not casually, not idly, but with the same quiet scrutiny he applied to every case. The promenade became a corridor of evidence. Strides lengthened. Cadences faltered. Knees drifted where they shouldn’t.

By the fourth day, he had intervened.

A runner on the beach. Intervals. Overreaching stride. Too much braking force. A quiet word. A small correction. A nod of understanding.

By the fifth, it was no longer accidental.

The concierge mentioned — politely, carefully — that several guests had been asking about the “movement consultant in room fourteen.” The phrase lingered just long enough to suggest this had already been discussed elsewhere.

He considered it for the duration of a single coffee.

Then he collected his notebook.

The cases that followed were not foot cases. Not directly. They were knee cases — a territory adjacent, but never entirely separate. The knee sits between decisions made above and consequences delivered below. The hip dictates. The foot absorbs. The knee reports.

Ten cases. Ten variations of the same quiet complaint.

He had always said the body leaves clues. It turns out it doesn’t stop just because you’re on holiday.

The holiday could wait.