The path is narrow, yet they walk.
Eyes set on a distant fire,
a flicker against the weight of dusk.

No one calls them forward,
no hand guides their steps,
only the pull of something unseen,
something felt in the hollow of the chest.

They do not ask if the road is kind.
They do not wait for the sky to clear.
The wind howls,the ground shifts,
still,they move.

Some falter,
but those who rise again
carry the breath of the fallen,
woven into their own.

The will of the willing
is not the cry of the fearless,
nor the certainty of stone.
It is the quiet refusal
to surrender to stillness.