I was on a job site yesterday, doing this small residential reno in Queens, kinda near Astoria Park, you know? It was already like, humid as hell, maybe 85 degrees, the kind of air that just sticks to you, and I was stacking these limestone blocks, pretty standard stuff, 40-50 pounds a pop, nothing crazy. But I’m doing my thing, right, grabbing one, then another, and then I went for this third one, this kinda yellowish one, and my grip just… almost gave out. Not completely, like, I didn’t drop it, but it was *right there*. My fingers just kinda slipped, you know? It was like for a split second, a real quick one, the muscle just wasn't there. My hand felt... spongy, I guess? Like I was holding a wet sponge instead of a solid block of rock. I had to reposition it, kinda grunt a little extra, to get it to settle. And nobody saw, I don't think. Everyone else was kinda focused on their own stuff, the foreman was on his phone, whatever. And I just kept going, obviously, because what else am I gonna do, tell everyone I can't lift a stone anymore? But it was just… I dunno. It was a moment. I've been doing this since I was, what, eighteen? Nineteen? My old man taught me, his old man taught him. This is what we do, what *I* do. And suddenly, it’s not just… second nature. It’s not just *there* anymore. And I'm sitting here now, it's 2:17 AM, and I'm looking at my hands, kinda clenching them open and closed. They look the same, all scarred up and calloused, but inside… something’s different. Like the wiring is fraying, maybe. I just turned fifty-three last month, maybe that’s it. My wife says I’m overthinking, that it’s just the heat, or I’m tired, which, sure, I am tired, always. But this felt… different. More specific. More like a warning, I guess. And then I started thinking about everything else, like, the mortgage, the kid's tuition, the fact that I'm supposed to be able to *do* this for at least another ten years, right? That's the plan. And if I can’t… then what? I don’t have a plan B, really. Just this. This job, these hands, this back. And I’m not even hurt, not really, just… less. And that’s almost worse, in a way. Like it’s not an injury I can recover from, it’s just… entropy. Kinda freaks me out, to be honest. I mean, what do you even tell someone when your hands just kinda decide they're not into it anymore? It's just a job, I know, but it's *my* job. It's who I am, sort of. And now I’m just staring at the ceiling, thinking about that yellow stone, and how it felt like it almost slipped. Just almost.