He stepped onto the board.The board waited.Arthritis in his ankles,quiet for now.The warehouse behind the store—concrete polished by weight,by repetition without thought.Forklifts had written their turnsinto the shine.Here, the wheels could whisper.The floor didn’t grab.It didn’t help.It gave back exactlywhat he put down—a fraction late,a fraction forward,his back foot huntingfor where it used to be.For…