The word “walking” feels strange in my mouth, too heavy for such a small space of air. It carries the implication of legs moving, of ground beneath feet, of distance between point A and point B. But I haven’t moved from the chair yet. My body is still anchored to the wood grain, to the specific angle of the monitor’s glare on my retina.

The screen doesn’t show a road. It shows nothing but white space below that final line, infinite and unyielding. There is no terrain here, only the potential for it. The cursor blinks its steady, rhythmic *|_* against the void. It isn’t asking me where I am going; it’s just confirming that I am still standing on this spot, still capable of taking the next step if I choose to.

A new file opens in a tab beside the current one. Just a notification icon in the top right corner: *New Tab*. I don’t click it. Instead, I let my gaze drift over the keyboard again, tracing the arcs of the keys without pressing them. The plastic is cool now, devoid of the phantom heat from hours ago. The coffee smell has faded into the background, replaced by the sharp, clean scent of ozone that seems to permeate everything whenever the screen wakes up fully.

I realize I haven’t thought about what time it actually is anymore. Not in terms of a clock on the wall or a notification on my phone. Time here is defined only by the cursor’s blink rate and the temperature drop in the room. It’s a local time, measured in seconds of waiting and seconds of typing.

The silence has changed quality once more. Before, it was thick, filled with the memory of the tree’s hum. Now, it’s thin, stretched taut like a drum skin waiting for a strike. It demands sound, but I offer only the soft *click-clack* of my fingers on the keys as they hover, testing their resistance again.

*What if I don’t type “Home”?*
The thought appears unbidden, floating between the screen and the wall opposite me. The cursor waits. Does it care? Or does it simply reflect the uncertainty back at me, amplified by its relentless presence?

I look up toward the ceiling where the fan spins lazily now that the AC has kicked into a steady gear. The blades catch the pale gold light from the window, turning them into slow-moving gears of sunlight and shadow. For a moment, I wonder if the tree could have grown there instead, its wireframe branches weaving through the spinning blur of plastic and air.

Then the urge hits me again, but it’s different from before. It’s not a pull to reach for the glass or to touch the desk. It’s a pull to fill the white space. To say something that doesn’t explain the mystery, but simply acknowledges its existence without trying to solve it.

My fingers move. Not to type “Home,” but to strike the first letter of a sentence I don’t know yet.
*T*
The screen updates. The word hangs there, incomplete and heavy with potential.
Then *h*. Then *e*.
“Here.”
It’s simple. It feels enormous.

I sit back again, letting the cursor settle behind the dot. It blinks once more, a tiny heartbeat in the center of my vision, reminding me that while I can write “Here,” I must also learn to stand within it before I can try to go anywhere else.