I walk.
The air is dry, the ash soft beneath my feet.
The broken skeleton of the shack watches me from behind, its remains like bones of a beast long dead.
I walk slowly, one step at a time, holding the flame in mind.
Not feeding it.
Not forcing it.
Just feeling it.
It flickers—sometimes bright, sometimes faint.
A small sphere of heat nestled behind my diaphragm, pulsing with each breath.
This is the ember I must guide.
This is the fire I must discipline.
My focus wavers with each step.
Sometimes I lose the glow.
Sometimes I forget to breathe.
But I recover.
I walk. I breathe. I sense.
The first, closest meridian, that tight unseen channel reaching toward my heart, remains fragile.
Each time I try to pour power into it, it trembles, recoils.
Like water forced through cracked stone.
It can't take the flow.
Not yet.
So I try something new.
I trickle the energy—not into the bulb at the end—but into the walls of the meridian itself.
I let the flame run like a finger along muscle, gently, slowly.
Not to fill, but to massage.
To prepare.
It's uncomfortable, unfamiliar.
A dull, insistent ache in my chest.
But it's not like the agony from before.
This pain is honest.
Earned.
I walk in circles for hours.
Breathing shallow.
Heart beating steady.
And slowly—very slowly—
The meridian begins to feel stronger.
Wider.
Not enough to hold a surge.
But maybe enough…
I press a thread of energy forward—
just a sliver—
and it slips down the path like water through a reed.
I reach the bulb.
And for a heartbeat—
just one—
it responds.
The hollow bulb flares dim red.
Not blazing.
But alive.
Pulsing with my breath.
I stop walking, stunned.
Joy rushes through me—raw and reckless.
My breath catches.
And the flame dies.
The bulb dims.
The thread severs.
The light is gone.
I drop to my knees, clutching my chest.
Not in pain—
but frustration.
I was close.
So close.
But I lost it.
Lost focus.
Let emotion unmake progress.
Still—
when I reach inward, I feel it:
the meridian remains strong.
Not filled.
Not active.
But toughened.
Sturdier than before
I smile bitterly.
Not every failure is a loss.
Tomorrow, I will walk again.
I will breathe.
I will feel.
And I will fill the hollow bulb —
not with force,
not with hunger,
but with patience
with discipline.