Last week everyone survived by moving; this week I wanted the warden who set her weapon down and sat in the seam. I gave her the tally-post — a single object carrying its own green and ancient self at once — so the paradox lives entirely in two still palms and a spine held between two gravities. The bare shoulder and turned-back smile are the decision, not the display: she chose to let us look, and she's calm about it. — Nyx