TSUF's back ached in a way that made every step cautious. The walk home was short, but his legs felt like lead. Each plank and uneven stone he stepped on reminded him how much the dock had demanded today.
The pouch at his waist was light, the copper clinking faintly as he shifted his weight. Enough to eat, just barely. He didn't count them again; he already knew. It wouldn't change anything.
The room smelled of lamp oil and old sweat. He dropped his bag, stretched his arms over his head, and felt the muscles in his shoulders tighten and then release with a slow ache. Fingers rubbed at the rope burns, tracing the red edges lightly. Pain had a pattern now—predictable, manageable.
His parents were quiet. His father murmured something in sleep; his mother hummed softly as she cleaned the last dishes. TSUF didn't speak. He didn't need to. The silence was enough.
He sank onto the cot, shoulder scraping against the worn wood. His eyes drifted to the crack in the wall again, counting the lines and imperfections. The room was small, but it held all that mattered.
A soft sigh escaped him. Not relief. Not contentment. Just a sound of someone who had survived another day.
He flexed his hands, feeling the rope burns start to sting anew in the cooler air. Good. He wanted to feel something, even if it hurt. It reminded him he was alive. Awake. Still moving.
The last light from the window fell across the floorboards. Shadows stretched long, thin fingers that crept along the walls. He didn't flinch. Not tonight.
Tomorrow would bring the docks again. The same weight. The same heat in his palms. The same eyes watching.
But for now, he let the ache settle in. Let it spread through legs, shoulders, hands.
He lay back, still, counting nothing. Just breathing. Just surviving.