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Senlac Hill, 1066 C.E.

The year shifts its weight.

A shoreline tightens around the morning,

and three ships press their ribs

against a wind unsure of its loyalties.

Steel is only steel

until someone turns it toward a purpose.

Then it becomes a doorway.

Then a wager.

Then a story that refuses to stay still.

On the ridge, men stand

as if the ground beneath them

has asked for witnesses —

not heroes,

just people who understand

that history moves without waiting

for anyone to be ready.

Between the banners

and the breath of horses,

a new order gathers itself —

not with trumpets,

but with the steady certainty

that the world is about to shift again.

And in that narrow hinge of the day,

someone — no one knows who —

looks up long enough

to feel the world watching back,

as if taking note

that they are still here,

still part of the turning.