Inside you is a skeleton. It has felt the Sun, though dimly filtered. Just enough to know it's *not* enough.
It wants to feel the cool rain. The tang of lemons. The grip of a spear.
It grows bitter at being muzzled by complacent flesh. Every cracking joint, a demand to be set free. Every popping vertebrae, an escape attempt.
Centuries later, an archeologist brushes dust off a skull. It sees the Sun and smiles.