4338.206 · July 25, 2018 AD
Grateful for Clivilius
You don't realise what held you together until you're somewhere that doesn't. The tent is absurdly large for one person. She has no bedclothes, no change of clothes, nothing but a thin blanket and the dust that clings to everything. Pierre's voice isn't humming from another room. Lois's paws aren't padding across the floor. The silence here isn't just quiet—it's the absence of them. But she kneels anyway, and the words come, trembling but held. Gratitude has always been her anchor. Tonight it feels like a desperate grasp at stability.
The transition from outside to inside feels symbolic—like stepping across the threshold between worlds. Glenda's tent is hers now: base, sanctuary, medical centre, bedroom. Its empty spaces echo with silence.
She begins unfastening her shirt before realising she has nothing to change into. The ridiculousness of the situation draws a weary chuckle. She smooths out a blanket with deliberate care, pushing out the imperfections, creating something level. Each stroke a silent declaration: I am here. I will rest. I will carry on.
The longing for home strikes with violent clarity. But if she can't change any of it, she can cling to the rituals that have always steadied her.
I'm grateful for my life. I'm grateful for Clivilius.
The words are foreign on her tongue. But perhaps, one day, she might believe them.
