I stepped into the shoes of a woman walking through a hospital. Her steps were not listening to the corridor. They were tuned to something ahead. Something heavier than the floor beneath them.
Her hands were empty. The shoes understood why. They were already carrying enough.
The shoes slowed. As if arriving too fast might change what was waiting. As if speed could harm hope.
In these shoes, I learned that hospitals teach your feet before they teach your heart. They teach you how to walk when everything inside you wants to run.