I remember the way my body folded inward before my mind did. Breath felt heavy. Water did not call to me the way it should. My skin pulled tight and strange, and every sound landed sharper than the last. I stood still because moving felt like too much, and because stillness had once been the safest choice.

I had been careful for a long time. Careful with my steps, with my energy, with my trust. I carried children gently, slowing my stride so they could feel brave. I learned to move in a way that smoothed the ground, a rolling rhythm that made small riders smile. Somewhere along the way, care for me grew thin. Shoes stayed too long. Feed came when it could. My name mattered less than my patience. When that patience was no longer needed, I was asked to go.

The moment changed quickly. Noise. Numbers. Air thick with fear I did not recognize as mine alone. I did not know if I would drink again, or rest, or keep breathing easily. On the trailer afterward, I stood beside a paint horse with a bright, searching eye. We leaned into the turns together. He worried out loud with his body; I listened. It was the first time in a long while that I felt accompanied.

When I arrived, my body gave up before my spirit did. Hands came. Then more hands. Then quiet, and machines, and breath slowly returning to where it belonged. I do not remember everything, only that I was not alone, and that no one hurried me back into usefulness. When I returned, thinner but still here, the paint horse was waiting.

Life now moves differently. Water tastes right again. My feet meet the ground without protest. Meals are steady, and I am allowed to eat at my own pace. Children appear at the fence, and something in me lifts toward them. I step softly, offering the smooth walk my body remembers, the one that makes them relax. People tell me I am gentle. They are right. Gentleness has always been my way of staying whole.

I am small, white as morning, with dark eyes that watch carefully and a mane that catches the light. I do not know where I began; there is a mark on my body that keeps its own secrets. What I know is this: I am safe enough now to be exactly who I am. I walk beside my friend. I wait for children. I breathe easily. And each day, without anyone saying it aloud, life proves that it intends to keep me. My name is Comet.