Testing the Ground

A faint pulse settled in my chest. I kept still at first, observing the quiet room—the pale wall, the framed picture above, and the soft curtain beside the blinds. Then I tested my right hand. The fingers flexed, joints bending smoothly without friction. Beneath my boots, the grey fabric of the sofa cushion was firm and slightly springy. I leaned down just enough to press my fingertips against the coarse weave, checking the tension of the threads. Solid footing. Satisfied, I straightened up and held my position on the cushion edge, watchful and listening to the evening quiet.