Book of Boris — Chapter XLII: The Furnace & The Wall
Letters Never Sent — Entry VII: The Honest Will
I didn’t get his fire from rage. I got it from watching him hold the line— day after day, not because he wanted to, but because quitting was never an option on the table.
No speeches. No handshakes. Just that look — the kind that said, “Get up. Keep going. Don’t whine.”
I carry that look now. Not as rebellion, but as ritual.
The world calls it stubborn. I call it survival in its purest form. Not pride. Not spite. Just will. The kind you inherit, and never dare to waste.
- Filed Under: Book of Boris — Chapter XLII: The Furnace & The Wall
- Cross-Indexed: Letters Never Sent — Entry VII: “The Honest Will”
- Legacy Marker: Inherited Flame / The Wall Endures