I stood up.
Not in a burst of willpower, nor in a heroic surge, but with the painful slowness of a being that even gravity hesitates to carry. Every movement, every recovered joint was a tiny victory over the internal collapse. I straightened my back with the caution of a broken old man, or a condemned soul who, against all odds, still rises to walk toward what comes next — even if he doesn't want to.
Slowly, almost out of sync, I placed one foot in front of the other.
One foot in front of the other.
Always.
Like a rhythm without music, like a march imposed by something larger than will. I wasn't walking to reach a place. I was walking because standing still had become impossible. Because something, in the ground or within me, was pushing me to keep going.
The ground… rippled.
