A box on a rope, and you are not afraid.
Think about that. We are the ones who learned, screaming, that a drop is a lion in disguise, that the ground rushing up is the last thing the shrew who dawdled ever felt. We put that fear in you before you had a name, wove it into the belly, so that even now a missed stair makes your whole body clutch.
And you? You step into the dangling box, the doors close, the cable takes your entire weight over an empty shaft, and you look at your phone.
The lungfish hauled itself across mud so its great-great-billionth grandchild could press a lit button labeled 7 and lean against a mirrored wall to check its teeth.
We built you legs. Good ones. The woman who walked the herd south for three moons, ankles like river-stone, she gave you those. And here you stand, perfectly still, letting a hummed machine do the climbing, watching numbers brighten one after another. When it stops between floors your heart does leap, briefly, and we recognize you then, our own frightened animal, alert at last. Then it lurches on and you sigh and go back to being bored.
Bored. In a rising room. We can hardly believe such a thing is permitted.
Someone gets in with an armful of coffee and you both study the ceiling in silence, two apex survivors, riding smooth air upward, wanting nothing, hunted by nothing.
Four billion years of clawing uphill, and the hill finally carries you.
Go on. Lean there. Yawn if you like. We stopped counting the danger the moment the doors opened safe, and now we just crowd close to watch you rise, warm and idle and ours, all the way to the seventh floor.