The docks smelled hotter than ever, a mix of brine, tar, and the sweat of men already worn thin. TSUF's sandals stuck to the slick wood, heels scraping against warped boards. Each step reminded him of yesterday, of every crate lifted, every rope burned, every ache that had not eased overnight.
He felt the presence again, faint but certain. Not intrusive. Not guiding. Just there. In corners of warehouses, across the water, behind rusted crates. He ignored it, focusing on the rhythm of work. Step, lift, shift, set down. Repeat.
A foreman barked from a nearby platform, voice thick with tobacco and fatigue.
"Faster! Don't slow the tide!" TSUF grunted, adjusting his grip on the heaviest sack, arms straining. The sun beat down, heat biting through sweat-soaked clothing.
Coins jingled in his pouch, faint but grounding. Enough for medicine, enough for bread, enough to keep his parents' bellies full. That was all that mattered.
A younger laborer tripped over a rope, crates toppling. TSUF glanced, just briefly, and steadied his own load. Not to help, not to scold. The work demanded him fully. The watching presence lingered, light and constant. He didn't flinch. He didn't acknowledge. He simply moved.
The tide of crates rolled on. The tide of men around him ebbed and flowed. TSUF's body ached, rope burns throbbed, sweat dripped into his eyes, but he lifted again. Step, shift, set down. Repeat.
Step by step, he pressed on.