No Gentle Hands

The master cracks his whip across the horse’s trembling flank, pushing the beast to its limits until the wildness snaps and the horse reacts, a flurry of chaos beneath the sting. When silence falls, the master believes the animal has learned, believes the wounds are healed. He reaches out with clean hands, petting the horse's weary muzzle, his fingers gentle, but not soft enough. The horse, though still, does not forget. It smells the leather polish on the master's skin, the lingering scent of cruelty woven into the fabric of his flesh. The horse knows the weight of that smell, knows it cannot be washed away. And no matter how tender the touch, the horse remains wary, the scars deeper than the skin, unforgiven. The master must face the truth of his actions. the horse may no longer fight, but forgiveness does not bloom on the soil of mistreated land. The horse is not healed, and the master is not forgiven.