Another day came and raindrops pattered softly outside, tapping the earth like tiny fingertips. The sky dimmed to a gentle grey, and mist curled between the trees below. Inside the cave, our piles of grass and vines were slowly taking shape—becoming something soft, something almost like a real bed.
We sat together near the mouth of the cave, sharing a piece of fruit. Kate leaned against me, warm and quiet, her little fingers sticky from the juice. When the first bigger drop splashed onto the stone outside, she looked up at me with wide eyes.
"Rain," she whispered.
"Yes," I said softly, brushing her hair behind her ear. "Rain keeps the forest alive."
She snuggled closer, so I wrapped my arm around her. Outside, the rain began to fall in steady sheets, turning the world silver. Inside, it felt like we were hidden in our own small, warm world.
I looked down at her exhausted, fragile face—blisters still healing, eyes still carrying fear from everything we had escaped. She needed comfort. Something normal. Something gentle.
"Want me to tell you a story?" I asked.
She nodded immediately, curling her legs under her like a little bird tucking in its wings.
I inhaled slowly, searching my memory—not for survival skills, not for warnings or fear, but for something my own parents read to me long ago.
"Okay," I began quietly, stroking her hair, "this is a story about a little star."
Her eyes lifted, soft and curious.
"Once upon a time," I whispered as rain whispered with me, "there was a tiny star who lived high in the sky. She wasn't as big as the others, and she didn't shine as bright. Sometimes, she thought maybe no one would ever notice her."
Kate blinked slowly, listening.
"But one night," I continued, "the little star looked down and saw a little girl on Earth who couldn't sleep. The girl was cold… and scared… and alone."
Kate held my hand tighter.
"So the tiny star gathered all the light she had—every bit, even the little spark she kept for herself—and she shined as bright as she could. Just for that one girl."
"What happened?" Kate whispered.
"The girl looked up," I said, "and she saw that little star twinkling just for her. And she didn't feel alone anymore. From that night on, the girl knew that no matter how dark things got, that small star was watching over her."
Kate leaned her head on my chest, breathing slow and deep.
"And the little star," I finished softly, "found out something wonderful. Even a tiny light can make the world less scary, if it shines for someone it loves."
The cave glowed with the faint reflection of rain. Our little bed of grass rustled as Kate nestled down, eyelids drifting closed.
"Mommy… are you my star?" she murmured.
My throat tightened.
"No," I whispered, kissing her forehead. "You're mine."
The rain kept falling, but the world felt warmer. Protected. For the first time since everything began, we felt like we had a moment of peace.
After the rain finally slowed to a soft dripping from the leaves, we pushed aside our crude woven door and stepped out into the damp, fresh world. The air smelled alive—rich earth, wet bark, and the sweetness of rain-soaked leaves. Everything glistened. Even the moss on the stones looked brighter.
"We should find more food before the sun sets," I said, taking Kate's small hand.
The ground was soft under our feet as we walked down from the cave entrance into the forest. Rainwater still dripped from the branches above, sometimes falling onto our shoulders like playful taps.
It didn't take long to find fruit—bright yellow guavas, big enough to fit in my palm. I checked one for worms, then gently placed a few into a large leaf to carry back.
Then, a bit farther down, I spotted something familiar growing in a cluster near a fallen tree.
Large heart-shaped leaves… green veined… thick stems…
"Taro," I whispered. "This is taro."
Kate looked up at me, head tilted. "Can we eat it?"
"Yes," I said, kneeling down to touch the leaves. "The roots are edible, and so are the young leaves if we cook them well. My grandparents used them sometimes. It's a good vegetable."
She watched curiously as I used my sharpened stone tool to scrape soil away. The taro root was fat and heavy beneath the ground, covered in wet mud.
"This is good," I said, feeling a wave of relief. "This can feed us for days."
We dug out two roots—just enough to carry—washed them in a puddle of flowing rainwater, and wrapped them in leaves. As we searched around, we also found a few more mangoes that had fallen during the rainstorm.
Kate's arms were full by the time we started heading back, her face flushed from effort.
"Mommy, look!" she said suddenly, pointing at a bright red flower in the bushes.
A hibiscus bloom, wet and open from the rain.
"It's pretty," I said, smiling at her.
"It looks happy," she added softly.
I looked at her—bare feet muddy, clothes torn, but eyes full of wonder—and nodded.
"Yes. It does."
We carried our harvest back up toward the cave, the forest quiet except for dripping leaves and distant bird calls. Our hands were full, our feet tired… but our stomachs would be full too.
Tonight, for the first time, we would eat something more than just fruit.
Taro. Cooked over our fire.
Real food. A sign that maybe—just maybe—we could make this place into a home for a while.
Back inside the cave, the air was cool and dry. The pile of grass we had gathered made the ground softer, and the woven door kept the chilly breeze out. I set the taro roots down near the fire pit and motioned for Kate to help me.
"First we peel it," I murmured, using the sharper stone tool. My hands still hurt from the travel and blisters, but working with food somehow felt grounding. "Taro must be cooked well. Raw, it can itch your mouth."
Kate nodded seriously and copied me carefully, peeling the rough skin with her tiny nails and a piece of sharp stone I had shaped for her.
When the fire finally started—after a few tired tries with the bow drill—the warm glow filled the cave. The flames made our crude woven door shimmer, letting only thin lines of orange light pass through the gaps.
I cut the taro into thick slices and laid them on a flat rock close to the flames. Soon, steam rose from it, carrying a nutty, earthy smell.
Kate sniffed the air eagerly.
"It smells good… better than the snake."
I laughed softly. "Everything smells better than the snake."
We roasted guava slices on sticks, letting the sweetness caramelize. Between the taro and fruit, it felt like a proper meal, not just survival.
As the taro cooked, I checked the cave again—edges, shadows, outside the entrance. No signs of the big cat following us. No human tracks. Only the dripping of water far in the forest.
That safety… that blessed silence… felt like the first gift in days.
When the taro finished, I handed Kate a warm piece.
"Careful, blow on it first."
She did, then took a bite. Her eyes widened.
"It's good! Like… like potato!"
"Exactly," I whispered, taking my own bite. It tasted warm, comforting, real. Something that reminded me of home and simpler days.
We ate slowly, savoring every bite, letting the warmth settle in our tired bodies.
After the meal, I placed the leftover guavas and taro slices on a large leaf shelf I made in the corner. The wind outside howled a little, and I added more sticks onto the fire, watching sparks float up like fireflies.
Kate curled into her nest of grass and leaves, eyes already heavy.
"Mommy…" she whispered. "Can we stay here for a while? It feels… safe."
I tucked a leaf blanket around her small shoulders.
"Yes, my love. We stay until we heal, until we grow stronger."
She smiled softly and drifted to sleep.
I sat at the entrance, spear beside me, watching the forest darken as night took over. Clouds parted just enough to show a sliver of stars. Somewhere far away, another scream echoed from the beach—faint, but real.
We were far… but not far enough.
"We'll survive," I whispered to myself, listening to my daughter's soft breathing behind me.
Tomorrow, I would need to explore deeper into the mountain area.
Find safer water sources.
Look for animals we could hunt.
Maybe find herbs to treat our wounds.
Maybe find caves connected deeper inside.
The world had ended… but for us, surviving had just begun.