The morning air felt colder than usual.
Fever lingered, breath heavy, and yet
I rose. I bathed. I moved through the small rituals of living.
My mother was silent,
but I carried that silence like a familiar shawl.
The lift doors closed too soon,
and I didn’t wait this time.
Bus 28 hummed through the dawn,
and I found myself both weary and awake.
There were gentle hands today
a shared seat, a quiet laugh,
and a morning greeting offered to someone I respect.
It felt slightly awkward,
but it was real, and that was enough.
Recognition arrived like a whisper
a small award, a token of persistence,
a proof that steady effort blooms even when unseen.
And so I keep walking,
not loudly, not flawlessly
but bravely,
in the quiet rhythm of my own recovery.
