Saint David's Day

He woke before the light had chosen a side.

At 5:20 the room felt whole but he did not. The old tide stirred — not loud, not catastrophic — just that familiar inward pull that said alter this. He named it. He did not obey it.

He opened the window.

Cold entered without ceremony. Beans reheated. Rice finished. Coffee poured. Nothing mystical occurred. He observed that nothing was missing and did not trust it fully, but he stayed.

At 7:15 he left the flat.

North Street accepted him without applause. Sunday debris. Cleansing crews. Vinyl apologies for inconvenience. He moved south into Um and did not belong to it, nor reject it. He walked.

Workhouse posts stood where discipline once ruled. Beggar’s Hill rose. He climbed it. The cemetery widened his vision. Elland Road sat below like a secular altar. The city did not instruct him; it merely existed.

The flick of a switch occurred without sound.

Cross Flatts opened. “Stronger Together” written in municipal hope. He felt less singular. He continued.

Middleton Park received him in winter light. Old coal beneath his feet. A burnt-out car surrendered to rust among trees that had learned to forgive extraction. He did not romanticise it. He noticed.

A man with two dogs attempted grievance. Daniel shifted wavelength — infrared — and passed through without friction.

At the pavilion he ate. Tea steadied him. The morning lengthened. The earlier wave had proven temporary.

He descended toward Hunslet.

Clock tower without church. Pub without industry. Mill without looms. Riverside flats where labour once sweated. Each layer a costume discarded and replaced. He neither mourned nor celebrated. He read.

He saw a bus declare that life was foreplay and felt the absurdity of build-up without arrival. He saw blossom against railings and trusted it more than slogans.

On the canal path he shouted “be careful” to a runner beneath a caution sign and laughed at his own small theatre.

He drank a hazy pale that failed to impress. He drank a Kirkstall that did. He positioned himself away from screens that scream. He noticed irritation rise and chose grass over ego when required.

He walked fourteen miles.

At 15:15 he lay down.

An hour disappeared.

He woke and roasted peppers, mushrooms, garlic, onions in olive oil. Kale and purple broccoli steamed into colour. He plated the day without commentary.

There had been no hangover.

There had been no revelation.

There had been alignment — achieved not through conquest but through step after step across ground that remembers everything.

The Fool did not preach.

He walked.

He observed.

He adjusted.

He returned.

Nothing was missing.

And the day, finally, was complete.