I went out walking because of the heat, with the clear intention of following a hillside trail I already knew. The day was bright and dry, the kind that invites movement. I wore a lightweight button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, half open to let air through, beige cut-off denim shorts that ended mid-thigh--old, chosen because I didn't mind ruining them--and regular sneakers. I was prepared, carrying a change of clothes for the way back.

The first part of the trail was dry and uneven, a mix of compact dirt and loose stones. I picked up the pace a little, not rushing, just enjoying the movement. A small misstep was enough. One foot caught slightly and my balance went forward. I fell face-first and slid along the dusty surface, scraping forward for a few meters before stopping. There was no pain, just friction.

When I stood up, the change was obvious. The front of my shirt was smeared with dust, the fabric dulled and marked across the chest and stomach. My thighs and knees were dirty, my hands coated in fine earth, and my shoes were already pale with dust. I brushed off what I could and kept walking.

Further along, the trail changed character. Water had passed through days earlier, and although there were no puddles left, the edges of the path were still lined with fresh, clay-like mud. The vegetation here was greener, alive, but the ground was soft and slick. The trail split into several narrow tracks, some firmer, others clearly muddy.

I stepped onto the softer sections and even jogged lightly, testing my balance. It felt oddly satisfying--easy to move, but demanding focus. Then I caught a hidden branch with my foot. The rhythm broke instantly. I went forward again, hands out, but the mud offered no grip. I slid face down along the trail, slower this time, smooth and controlled, until I came to rest.

This fall changed everything. The mud was thick and wet. My shirt darkened immediately, clinging to my chest and stomach. The shorts were coated across the front, heavy with clay. My arms, legs, and shoes were thoroughly covered. The dirt was no longer superficial--it had weight.

Still, I continued.

Ahead was a short but steep muddy slope. I stopped and crouched down to get a better look at where the trail continued. In that position--heels low, knees bent, body leaning slightly forward--I felt how unstable the ground really was. The soles of my shoes shifted subtly, sliding millimeter by millimeter. I adjusted my weight, trying to stay balanced, but the mud kept moving underneath me.

For a moment, everything held.

Then it didn't.

My feet slipped forward and my body tipped. I fell headfirst down the slope. The descent wasn't violent, but it was uncontrollable. I slid and rolled, chest and arms dragging through the mud. My shirt snagged and tore open, buttons pulling loose as the fabric spread apart. Mud pressed directly onto my skin. I reached the bottom tangled and disoriented, coated completely.

I tried to stand and climb back up the slope, but after a couple of steps my feet slid again. I lost balance and slid once more, rolling awkwardly. This time the shirt opened fully and the mud worked its way everywhere--between fabric, against skin, into every fold. By the time I stopped, there was no clean surface left: legs, arms, back, chest, neck, face, even my hair were covered.

Eventually, I stood up.

I walked on like that, heavy with mud, clothes soaked and clinging, the clay beginning to dry and crack on my skin. My body was tired but steady. I made my way back along the trail, calmer now, scanning the landscape for a small stream I thought might still be running.

I never found it.

So I kept walking, fully marked by the trail, until the path finally led me out.