Morning arrived quietly for a day meant to test my legs.

  Sunlight slipped through the gaps of the stable, pale and warm, as if the world itself was pretending nothing had changed.

  But everything had.

  Today, I would train again.

  I rose from the bedding with practiced care.

  The missing right foreleg was no longer a shock, just a fact I adjusted around.

  Vegetables had already been replaced by the stablehands.

  Fresh water waited.

  This stall had become my room, my shelter, my boundary.

  I lowered my face into the basin and let the cold wash over my muzzle.

  No hands. No fingers. Only habit, translated into muscle and instinct.

  My tail flicked once, twice, chasing an itch I couldn’t scratch properly.

  Before rest day, the prince had spoken softly beside my stall.

  “I have matters to attend to,” he had said. “I’ll come when it’s time for mounted training.”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  I remembered the certainty in his voice. I held onto it.

  The door opened.

  Footsteps. Calm. Familiar.

  The trainer entered carrying equipment, rope and headgear.

  A halter.

  He paused, watching me... while I wait.

  I didn’t resist.

  Most horses would.

  I knew that. He knew that too.

  His shoulders eased when I stepped forward on my own.

  “Good girl,” he said, almost surprised.

  "Of course I am," I thought. "I’m human."

  A former world-class jockey, reduced to flesh, bone, and breath, but still aware.

  The halter was fitted.

  The rope stayed loose.

  I followed him without tension as we left the stable, morning air widening around us.

  So, I tried to ask, "what’s today’s plan?"

  A sound left my throat.

  Low. Rough. Wrong.

  The trainer chuckled. “Easy, easy. I know. Nice weather today, isn’t it?”

  That wasn’t what I asked.

  "Outside training? Walking drills? Distance?"

  Another sound. Louder this time.

  He nodded anyway. “Mm. The Prince is busy. Told me to handle today.”

  "I know that. I’m asking about the lesson."

  I tried again, forcing intention into breath. A question. A direction.

  What came out was a horse’s voice.

  The trainer kept walking. “We’ll take it slow. No rush.”

  My steps faltered, not from pain, but from frustration.

  Every thought was clear. Every word fully formed. Yet nothing crossed the gap between us.

  "Listen to me."

  This is what I wanted to tell you.

  Yet the rope stayed slack.

  He trusted me.

  That trust made it worse.

  I stopped trying to talk with him.

  The trainer didn’t notice.

  I followed anyway, three hooves steady against the ground, heart heavier than my body.

  This was my first day outside.

  And I had never felt so trapped.

  Because if I couldn’t speak—

  If I couldn’t be understood—

  Then no matter how far I learned to walk.

  I might never truly move forward.