I kept climbing. Heavy legs, sore muscles, each step asked more of me. But I climbed.
More slowly, yes. Short of breath, my body trembling at times, but no longer faltering. Straighter. Less evasive.
As if something within me, finally, had straightened up — not out of strength, not out of pride, but out of necessity. A silent, inward uprightness, fragile perhaps... but real.
And with each step, I was no longer fleeing. I was carrying.
Not because I felt better physically. My body was still just as worn, my muscles still tense, my breathing just as short.
Nothing had lightened. Nothing had healed.
But something had straightened within me. Slowly. Silently. Like a broken stem that, despite everything, finds its axis again.
It wasn't a rebirth. Not a victory.
Just an inner tremor, tenuous, fragile, but enough. Not everything. No. Far from it.
But just enough... to look ahead. To face the next step without averting my gaze. To go on, no longer fleeing, but moving forward.
