A Firm Footing
The roar of running water beneath me was the first thing to settle into clarity. I stood at the head of the log, staff resting firmly against the rough bark. Gently, I tested the movement of my arm, pressing the tip of my staff into a tiny patch of soft green moss. It yielded with a quiet, damp cushion. Behind me, my companions remained entirely still, suspended in mid-stride. I drew a slow breath, steadying myself in the cool air, and chose to hold my ground until the way ahead felt fully understood.
