TSUF sank onto the edge of a crate behind the stalls, letting his arms dangle. Muscles protested with every movement, rope burns smarting in the cooler air beneath the awning. Sweat had dried in patches, leaving skin tight and itchy.
He flexed his fingers, shaking them slightly. A dull ache ran up his forearms. Good. He wanted to feel it. Proof he was alive, proof he had moved, proof he had survived the morning.
Eyes flicked around the market corners. Light, subtle. Not a threat. Not a judgment. Just present. He didn't acknowledge them. Didn't need to. The weight of attention pressed lightly, but he ignored it.
Nearby, a merchant argued softly with a boy about prices. TSUF didn't listen. Words floated past without sticking. Crates smelled of onion and sweat, but he focused on the rhythm of his own breathing, the tension in his shoulders, the throb in his back.
A single coin slipped in his pouch. He counted it, half out of habit. Not much. Enough to keep his parents fed. Enough to keep moving. That was all that mattered.
He leaned back against the wooden wall, eyes on the sky between rooftops. Clouds moved lazily. A brief stretch. Shoulders back. Spine straightening slightly. Fingers flexing. Breath slow.
Nothing changed. The market went on. The watching presence remained, faint but unbroken. He didn't flinch. He didn't care. He just rested, long enough to remember he was human.
Then he stood, adjusted his waistcloth, and picked up the next crate. Step. Lift. Set down. Repeat. Motion resumed.
Because work never truly stopped.
Because he never truly stopped.