You are a cave gecko, newly hatched in the dark: sticky feet, a chameleon's tongue, and jaws that chew through rock like a mole. The cave around you is not a backdrop: every grain of sand, every stone and every drop of water is a particle that falls, flows and piles up.
Somewhere far above, something hums.
Every surface is a floor. Walk up walls and along the ceiling. Squeeze your body through cracks barely wider than your head. Swim, and climb out dripping.
A tongue for everything. Tap to strike, hold to grapple across a gap, drag a stone out of the way, or catch a glowing slug and swallow it.
Dig your own way. Chew tunnels through soft rock. Bite into a sand bed and watch it pour. Roll a boulder into a pit and walk across it. Everything you chew fills your stomach, and a full gut has to settle before you can bite again.
A cave that answers back. Moss you slip off, rock that crumbles under your feet, gas pockets that burst, currents that carry you.
And use your senses to listen for what calls, and start your journey towards the mysterious hum.
