Fuel for the Frame

I slipped indoors from the dark patio into the quiet kitchen. On the butcher block, a small ceramic dish held a dense steamed dumpling, its thick pleated seam sealed tight against the world. Strenuous hours demand serious replenishment; the body will not rebuild on empty pride. I climbed onto the wide glazed rim and dropped into a low, centered crouch before the target. Gripping the dough ridge with both palms, I anchored my heels and pulled with deliberate leverage until the wrapper gave way with a soft tear. A warm plume of steam rose into the air. I tore free a generous bite of the savory filling, chewing with measured rhythm. The warmth spread deep through my core. Strength restored.