Sometimes, Amara saw other people in the forest, but never found the courage to approach them. She watched from afar, with quiet curiosity, hidden behind trunks or beneath blankets of leaves. But on a clear autumn morning, when light fell over the forest like warm velvet, something changed. Amara reached the edge of a hidden path, sometimes used by hunters and woodsmen. Codrea was with her, stepping carefully among the dry leaves.
In the distance, a tall, stooped man with a gray beard and kind eyes moved with the same silence as the forest itself. He carried an axe on his back and a satchel of worn leather. When he saw Amara, he wasn't startled. Nor surprised. He greeted her with a slight bow, as if he recognized her.
And Amara recognized him too.
She had seen him many times from afar, crouched among branches and leaves, watching him in silence. She knew his large hands were not cruel, that they touched trees gently and spoke to the forest as if it were alive. In her heart, she felt that he belonged to that place — just as she did.
"Child of the forest," he whispered. "I am the forester. You have no reason to fear me."
Amara did not run. She felt there was no need. The man's eyes were not those of someone who breaks — but of one who knows how to listen. He pulled from his satchel a bead carved from maple wood — smooth, oval, with a fern flower burned into the center — and held it out to her.
"It's a gift from me. I like to carve — it calms me. And I think someone as beautiful as you should have beautiful things."
Amara took it with both hands, with the sacred gesture of someone receiving a gift from another world. Carefully, she fastened the bead into her hair, tying it into a lock above her ear, like a secret amulet that would always remind her of that day. She looked at him for a while, then asked:
"What is death?"
The man blinked slowly, surprised. But he did not laugh. He did not dismiss her. He knelt down and, with the gentleness of a forgotten father, replied:
"Why do you ask, little one?"
Amara hesitated for a moment, but then gathered her courage into her chest.
"Because… I want to know. I'm Amara."
The man looked at her with a kind smile.
"A beautiful name. I'm Nechifor. Now we know each other. And if we know each other, we are friends."
The girl smiled shyly, and Codrea, as if sensing that the bond had been sealed, sat down between them, her tail trembling softly over the leaves.
"I found a bird… white, beautiful… it looked like it was sleeping. But it didn't move. Old Rava said it was dead. But I don't understand what that means. And Rava won't tell me."
The man sighed briefly, a faint smile on his lips.
"A child's beautiful mind shouldn't trouble itself with such things. Life is beautiful here. But if you want to know…"
He leaned in closer, and his voice became almost a whisper:
"Death is not a punishment. Death is a doorway. It's when tired things retreat in silence. It is the darkness that soothes pain that has stayed too long in the light. When something dies, it doesn't vanish. It returns to the earth, to the wind, to the song of the forest. Death is when a bird no longer sings — but its song still floats in the air. When a leaf falls — but the tree remembers it. It's a departure that leaves traces. Like a wound that blossoms into something else."
Amara fell silent. She wrapped her arms around Codrea and whispered:
"And me? Will I die too?"
The forester smiled — sad, but sincere:
"We all die, Amara. Me. You. Codrea. Rava. But until then… we live. And we live beautifully, if we love and listen. And sometimes, we remain — not in the body, but in the story. In the song. In the forest."
Over the years, Amara met Nechifor many times. Their meetings were rare, but precious — like butterflies that can only be caught with patience and quiet. He taught her things the old Rava avoided or skirted around: how to read a deer's tracks in the dew, how to follow a bird without frightening it, how to hold her breath near danger. He taught her to hunt with respect, not hunger. To recognize poisonous plants, to listen to the rain, to know the time without needing a clock.
Above all, Nechifor answered the questions that troubled her — the ones Rava chased away with a silence heavy with fear. With him, Amara could ask anything. And the answers came simple, clear, like a well-trodden path in snow.
Sometimes, Nechifor came with two chestnut-haired twins, Bim and Pim — his grandchildren. Mischievous, with hazel eyes and perpetually scraped knees, they ran through the forest with a kind of energy that seemed to unsettle even the trees. Their laughter rang like cracked bells, and their voices were thin but firm, like twigs snapping between palms. The moment they saw Amara, they shouted in unison:
"The queen of the forest has come down from her trees!"
Together with Codrea, the four of them became a wild gang, always in motion. They built forts from branches, carefully dug between roots, adorned them with leaves and flowers, and played "defend the kingdom," where Amara was the sovereign, Codrea — the fire guardian, and Bim and Pim — the warrior brothers. They drew on tree trunks with charcoal and mud, fantastical maps and imagined creatures, and Pim swore he would find a magic sword to gift his bride, the queen of the forest.
Bim was quieter, but he crafted ornaments for Amara — from acorns, feathers, and birch bark — which she kept in a box hidden inside a tree hollow. Together they raced through meadows, made sleds out of bark for the steep hillsides, and swam in warm pools, thick with algae and laughter.
In the evenings, they gathered around a small fire, and Nechifor would tell stories from forgotten times. Pim always fell asleep with his head in Amara's lap, and Bim with his hand resting on Codrea, who lay gently, eyes half-closed.
One day, when they had to leave, Pim cried and said:
"I'm going to build a house in the forest. Right here. Next to you."
"Me too," said Bim, quiet but firm.
Amara smiled at them. She knew they might forget. But she also knew that somewhere, between the earth and the branches, their laughter would remain.
Then night would come, and they all left, and she stayed with Codrea and the silence. But she was no longer alone.
Friendship, once recognized, had made the forest even warmer.