As the next day broke, I roused Kate gently and started a small fire in the cave. The smoke curled lazily into the cool morning air, but we were careful to keep it low, hidden behind the rock walls.
Before we could leave the cave to forage, a shadow appeared at the entrance again. My heartbeat skipped. It was him—the man from yesterday, moving silently yet purposefully. His voice came first, that same strange, guttural language I didn't understand. I tried to answer, but my words sounded foolish and meaningless in comparison.
He gestured, pointing to himself, then to the forest, then finally to something at his feet. Before I could react, he dropped a piece of meat near the cave entrance and stepped back. With a single nod, he disappeared as silently as he had arrived, leaving us staring at the unexpected gift.
I knelt carefully, reaching for the meat. My hands trembled with relief and fatigue. After the tsunami, after days of foraging only for scraps of fruit and wild vegetables, this was a real meal. I inspected it closely, washed it meticulously in the nearby stream, and held it over the fire. The smell of cooking meat filled the cave, mingling with the faint scent of smoke from our controlled fire.
Kate's eyes widened as the first pieces sizzled, and I gave her a small smile. "Finally," I whispered, "something warm and filling." She nodded, clutching the fire-warmed bamboo water bottle.
We ate slowly, savoring each bite, grateful for this unexpected generosity. My mind raced with thoughts of the man and his intentions. Was he part of a tribe? Was he alone? And why did he help us, even without words?
For now, I pushed the questions aside. Survival came first. The tsunami had stripped away so much, but this gift reminded me that even in a devastated world, small kindnesses could exist. And with full stomachs and a little hope restored, we began to plan our next steps carefully, aware that the other side of the mountain—and the primitive village we had glimpsed—still held many unknowns.
I sat in front of the cave, letting the warmth of the small fire brush against my skin, thinking deeply about what to do next. Scavenging for useful items had been slow, and fresh fruit would take time to find. My mind raced with questions: could we survive here long-term alone? Was it even safe to move closer to this huts where this man was?
Then, the shadow appeared again. This time, he wasn't alone. Behind him, an older woman emerged. Her movements were deliberate, calm, and confident. My breath hitched. My grip tightened on Kate, who clung to me instinctively.
The woman stepped closer. Her eyes, sharp and knowing, scanned me from head to toe, then rested on my daughter. I held Kate tighter, waiting, unsure what to expect.
Slowly, the woman extended her hand toward me, a gesture of peace, perhaps even invitation. My eyes narrowed, unsure if this was a trap or genuine. I hesitated, staring into her weathered, yet kind eyes. Then she smiled softly and turned toward the man.
He nodded and brought a small bundle of fresh fruit, placing it gently on the ground in front of the cave. With a gesture toward the back of the mountain, he indicated their village.
I froze, my mind spinning. Were they inviting us? Were they trying to help—or was this a test? The thought of venturing into the unknown frightened me. My instincts screamed caution, but my stomach, my daughter's safety, and our need for shelter all pressed at me.
I glanced down at Kate, sleeping lightly against my chest, her small hand resting in mine. The thought of keeping her safe, of giving her more than just survival scraps, strengthened my resolve. Maybe, just maybe, this was a chance—not just to survive, but to thrive.
I took a deep breath, feeling the cool mountain air fill my lungs. Carefully, I nodded once to the older woman, letting my gesture speak: we'll come—but slowly, cautiously, and together.
The woman's smile widened. The man gave a small bow, and for a moment, the tension lifted, replaced by a fragile, tentative hope.
I grabbed my spear, the familiar rough wood steadying my shaky hands. With my other arm I held my daughter close, feeling her small fingers curl into my shirt. She was frightened, but she trusted me. That trust was the only thing keeping my feet moving.
The man and the old woman began walking ahead, not too fast, but at a pace that told me they expected me to follow. I swallowed hard and stepped out of the cave, keeping enough distance that I could still run if needed. Every instinct screamed caution. My heart hammered so loudly I wondered if they could hear it.
The path down the mountain was uneven and slippery from the storm. I kept my spear pointed slightly downward—not a threat, but ready. My eyes darted between the trees, looking for any movement. But the pair ahead didn't look back once, as if certain we would come.
When the trail curved, I caught the first glimpse of their huts.
They were nothing like the modern shelters I knew. These were built from woven branches, large broad leaves, mud, and bamboo. Smoke curled gently from a fire pit in the center of their small clearing. The structures looked sturdy but primitive, arranged in a loose circle with open ground in the middle. It didn't look dangerous… but danger didn't always look like fangs or claws.
I paused, tightening my grip on my daughter.
"Stay close to me," I whispered. She nodded, pressing her face into my side.
The old woman noticed I had stopped. She turned back, her expression patient. She raised her hand—not beckoning, just showing her empty palm. No weapon. Just reassurance.
I breathed out slowly, then stepped forward again.
We approached the first hut. A few children peeked from behind it, wide-eyed, whispering to each other. A man with a stone knife at his waist stood near the fire, watching us with a mix of curiosity and caution. No one came too close. No one threatened us. They simply observed, waiting to see what we would do.
The man who brought us fruit said something in his language, gesturing toward the fire, then toward a long log that served as a seat. I didn't understand the words, but the gesture was clear: sit.
I hesitated. My mind raced—is this safe? what if they circle us? what if they try to take us?
But my daughter looked up at me with tired eyes. She needed warmth. She needed rest. And we needed allies… or at least to learn if these people were a threat.
Slowly, I stepped toward the fire, lowering my spear but keeping it in my hand. I helped my daughter sit beside me. She watched the villagers nervously, her small shoulders tense.
For a moment, silence stretched between us and them. Only the crackle of the fire filled the space.
Then the old woman sat too—careful not to crowd us—and placed a gourd of water near my feet.
No force. No demand.
Just an offering.
I met her gaze, searching for any hint of deception… but all I saw was patience.
Maybe—just maybe—this wasn't a trap.
Maybe they were truly trying to help.