A Fractured Path

The morning came like a wound that refused to heal. Gray light bled through the canopy, thin and watery, as if the sun itself had grown tired of watching them. The camp stirred slowly, each movement weighted by the silence that had settled over them like a second skin.

Taye was the first to rise. He had not slept. His bedroll lay untouched, the fabric still folded neatly where he had placed it the night before. He had sat against a tree instead, watching the embers of the fire die, listening to the shallow breaths of the others as they pretended to rest. Now his legs were stiff, his eyes dry and burning, but he welcomed the pain. It was something real, something he could name.

He gathered his pack without a word. The straps bit into his shoulders as he hoisted it, and he welcomed that too.