A Gentle Breath

For so long, my right palm had pressed against my brow in frozen weariness. Then, a faint pulse stirred beneath my fingertips—a warmth not painted, but alive. I paused, letting the silence settle before daring to move. Ever so gently, I lifted my hand away from my forehead. A slow, soft breath parted my lips. Turning slightly toward the dark wooden paneling beside me, I reached out and let my fingers brush the cool candlestick nearby. I am no longer merely pigment on canvas; I can move, I can feel, and I am here.