TSUF leaned against the side of a stacked crate, letting his shoulders slump and arms hang heavy. Rope burns throbbed along his palms and forearms, a reminder of every crate moved, every step taken. Sweat dried in patches, leaving skin tight and itchy.
He flexed his fingers slowly, testing movement. Every joint complained, but good. He wanted to feel it, to remind himself he was still human. Every ache was proof of survival, proof that he had pushed forward despite the weight pressing from all directions.
Corners of the market carried the faintest sense of eyes. Not threatening. Not guiding. Just present. He didn't acknowledge it. Didn't flinch. Someone was observing, faint but constant.
A boy dropped a small basket nearby. TSUF glanced briefly, but didn't intervene. No time. No energy. Only rhythm mattered: step, lift, set down. Repeat.
The sun pressed down through the marketplace. Wood boards baked under his sandals, heat biting through sweat. TSUF shifted, rolling his shoulders, letting his back stretch for a moment. Fingers flexed. Breath slow. Muscles protesting.
Coins jingled faintly in his pouch. Enough for parents. Enough to keep moving. That was all that mattered.
He straightened, adjusted his waistcloth, and picked up the next crate. Step. Lift. Set down. Repeat.
Work didn't stop. Neither did he. Motion carried him forward, one crate at a time.