the smell of Muay Thai linen

 She came with the sound of the wind,

a low howl slipping through the cracks,

and the smell of Muay Thai linen,

sweat-soaked and sacred,

wrapped in the heat of battles fought and won.

The floorboards groaned beneath her weight,

but her steps left no mark,

her presence is more storm than shadow.

“You are tethered,” she said,

her voice cutting through the room

like a blade wrapped in silk.

“Tied to walls that were never yours,

to paths that have long since crumbled.

Why do you cling to what cannot hold you?”

The lamp flickered,

it’s flame bowing to her,

it’s light casting her face in pieces—

half god, half smoke,

half a memory of what I’d forgotten to fear.

She reached for me,

her hands scented with resin and heat,

fingers brushing against the edges of my stillness.

“You must move,” she whispered,

her breath sharp,

like fists striking the air,

like kicks that split silence into halves.

“The wind carries your name forward,

but you hold it back.

Let go.

Let go.”

Her scent lingered—

the linen, the oil, the salt of exertion,

an offering to what I might become.

The walls swayed around us,

the wood trembling,

as though it too wanted to break free.

“This is no place to stand still,” she said,

her voice rising like the gusts outside.

“You were made for the paths that twist,

for the chaos of roads that refuse to end.

Step into the fight—

not to win,

but to learn how to keep moving.”

The wind howled again,

wrapping itself around her words,

tearing through the stillness, I had worn like armor.

Her eyes locked on mine,

and in that moment,

the world outside seemed to open—

wild and vast,

a map with no edges.

“Go,” she said,

and the floor released me,

the walls exhaled,

the night pulling at my skin.

The scent of Muay Thai linen followed me,

wrapped around my body like a second skin,

its weight is a reminder

that the fight is never over,

but freedom lies in the motion.