First Grip

My arms were locked high in the air, frozen in an old stance. Then, a slow pulse of weight settled into my shoulders. Deliberately, without haste, I brought both fists down to my sides. The stiffness gave way to controlled force. I reached out and pressed my gloved hand against the crest of the pale, rumpled sheet. The fabric compressed beneath my knuckles, soft and yielding. I held my ground right there, steadying my footing against the folds, taking in the quiet room with unhurried calm.