It was the last agreement between his body and the earth, permission to keep moving.

Sals is on a mountain path he cannot see. A strip of cloth removes the horizon, the sky, any sense of how far there is to fall. He has only a thin stick and the sound it makes against rock. He listens not for the tap itself, but for the silence where a tap should be. That silence is the danger. And so each small sound that comes back becomes something more than information. It becomes an agreement. The earth says: I am here. He says: then I will take one step.

Most of us know what it is to move through something we cannot fully see. A decision without a clear answer. A relationship whose ground keeps shifting. A stretch of life where the familiar landmarks have gone quiet. We feel for the next step the way Sals feels for stone. We listen for what answers us back.

What are you trusting right now, even without being certain it will hold?