A Firm Foothold

Quiet room. Still dark. I checked my balance first. The surface beneath my boots is speckled, firm, and slightly rough. I bent my right knee slowly—the joint gave way, smooth and silent. I leaned forward, pressing two fingers against the ground to test the grip. Stable. Behind me sits a massive grey armchair, like an imposing boulder in an open clearing. No sudden threats. I adjusted my stance, lowered my shoulders, and took a steady breath of still air. Ready.