A Foothold on White Stone

Stillness. Then... a faint pulse within. I was pressed flat against the pale, pitted wall. It was textured, slightly chalky, holding faint midday warmth. Carefully, I lifted one foreleg and tapped the surface. The grit held firm. I took three measured steps upward, testing each foothold before bearing weight. When my path met a slight bump in the paint, I sidestepped gently into the recessed mortar groove where the blocks join. A gentle current of air drifted down the seam. I paused there, legs anchored against the vertical stone, listening to the quiet hum of the room.