Her hand hovered. Then, lightly, not even a word, just a shape—a single, small circle. A sun. A zero. A beginning.

There was nothing written. Not yet. No plan. No promise to run five miles or learn French or become a new person by Monday. Just the void. The terrifying, generous, open void.

She held the damp cloth, cold in her fist.

The board turned black. True black. The black of deep water, of obsidian, of a sleep without dreams. She leaned her forehead against its cool, empty surface and breathed.

Swipe. Swipe. Swipe.

And in that void, a single, fragile power: the choice of what to draw first.