A Slight Adjustment

A pulse registered beneath my back—a steady warmth uncharacteristic of a static shelf. I paused, assessing the articulation in my right wrist. It yielded. With deliberate slowness, I flexed the joint, pressing my small knuckles against the textured ridge of the palm supporting me. It was soft, resilient, and undeniably warm. I straightened my neck by a fraction of an inch to survey the dim surroundings. No immediate disorder detected. Only the peculiar realization that I could now decide when to move.