I ran.
There was no beginning to the motion, no remembered first step, no moment where I decided to move. I simply existed in the act of running, lungs pulling in sweet air, legs stretching and folding with perfect rhythm, the ground rising to meet my feet as if it wanted me to keep going.
The field spread around me in every direction, green so vivid it almost hurt to look at, a color untouched by shadow or decay. Each blade of grass gleamed with a quiet vitality, bending without breaking as I passed.
There was no horizon.
The land did not curve. It did not fade into distance. It simply continued, endless and immediate, a sheet of living emerald that denied the concept of edge.
Above me the sky was pale and enormous, a soft white-blue expanse without sun, without clouds, without movement. It felt less like weather and more like a ceiling painted by a careful hand.
I ran and felt light.
