The sun pressed down hard, turning wood planks slick with sweat and spilled water. TSUF's sandals stuck to the warped boards, heels scraping against rough edges. Every step reminded him of the work already done—and of the work still to come.
He sensed them again. Faint, insistent, lingering at the edges of his awareness. Not guiding. Not judging. Just observing. He ignored it, focusing on his rhythm. Step, lift, shift, set down. Repeat.
A foreman shouted from above, face flushed with effort and irritation. "Keep moving! Don't let the tide stall!" TSUF grunted, shoulders straining under the weight of the heaviest crate yet. Rope burns stung with each adjustment, but he didn't pause.
Coins jingled faintly in his pouch, grounding him. Enough for bread, medicine, for the full bellies of his parents tonight. That was the math he followed.
A younger laborer stumbled over a coil of rope, sending a small crate tipping. TSUF glanced, adjusted his own position, and carried on. Not to help, not to lecture. The tide of work demanded his full attention. The watching presence lingered, subtle and constant. He didn't flinch. He didn't acknowledge. He moved.
The day wore on. Sweat ran in rivulets down his temples, along his back, stinging his eyes. Every muscle protested, rope burns smarting, joints stiff. Step, lift, set down. Repeat.
Each crate passed through his hands like a tide he couldn't stop. Pain and rhythm merged into motion, and still he went on—one shift closer to home, one step closer to rest.