Liora sat before dawn, before even the birds had decided whether the morning was worth beginning.
Nothing around her was doing very much. The air was cool, the ground holding the night without complaint. A single leaf lay on the stone beside her, neither fallen nor placed — simply there.
She noticed how difficult it was not to expect something. A sign. A thought. A direction. Her body leaned forward almost imperceptibly, as if readiness itself were a kind of reaching.
She let that go.
What remained was not emptiness. It was a fine-grained poise — muscles neither slack nor tense, attention neither roaming nor fixed. If something were to happen, she would meet it. If nothing happened, there was nothing missing.
A bird landed nearby. It did not look at her. It did not need to. It adjusted its weight, tested the surface with one foot, then the other, and stayed.
Liora understood then that stillness was not the absence of activity, but the settling of many possible movements into a single, quiet balance.
When the sun finally broke the edge of the horizon, nothing changed.
And that, she realised, was the change.
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