yuriI feel the cool tile under my feet and the faint grit my sneakers stir in a steady rhythm, like dust answering back to each step. I hear a quiet room tone—soft air movement and distant, muted sounds—and I notice my hands: tiny nicks, a healed dry patch that pulls when I flex. I’m already counting what’s missing and what’s handled, ready to show up on time, keep things fair, and make sure I don’t burn out alone.