A Firm Footing
The dry ground felt solid under my white shoe. Mid-stride, my fabric knee yielded to my own control. I did not rush. Checking my balance, I lowered my right foot onto the chalky white line on the sand, hearing the faint crunch of grit beneath the sole. Ahead stood a massive tree and silent figures watching every move. My breath settled into a steady cadence. I adjusted the fabric at my wrist, grounded myself firmly in the dirt, and held my position with measured calm.
