As the new day started, she woke up, feeling more refreshed than the day before. She opened the hut's door and saw a few villagers already moving about, most of them covered with some furs or leaves; their clothing was quite primitive. Fire was used in the center, a huge hearth mostly for cooking simple roasted meat or such. The old lady from the day before waved to her and gestured toward the food piled on one of the bigger crude tables. Invitation? Her daughter came behind her, holding her hand, and asked, "Can we eat that?"
She smiled softly at her daughter and whispered, "I think we can, love. Let's see."
Together, they stepped closer to the crude table, the smells of roasted meat and fresh fruit filling the air. The old lady watched them with gentle eyes, nodding slightly as they hesitated. She gestured again, pointing toward the food, then toward them, as if confirming they could take some.
Her daughter's eyes widened in excitement, and she grabbed a small piece of roasted meat, still warm, placing it carefully on a leaf. The mother smiled, letting her daughter choose a few fruits as well, showing her how to pick without taking too much. They both sat down near the edge of the hut, careful not to disturb anyone, and ate slowly, savoring the flavors.
While eating, the mother looked around at the villagers. They moved with a quiet, calm rhythm, speaking in words she didn't understand, but their gestures were kind and deliberate. It was clear that survival here required cooperation, and so far, they had accepted her and her daughter without question.
She patted her daughter gently. "See, Kate? They aren't dangerous. We're safe here, at least for now. We'll learn more every day."
Her daughter smiled and nodded, still holding onto a small piece of fruit, eyes flicking toward the villagers as if studying their movements. The mother felt a cautious relief settle over her—today, at least, they could eat without fear, and perhaps even rest a little more peacefully.
The old lady came closer again, pointing toward the fruit pile, then to the daughter, and spoke slowly, emphasizing each sound. The mother didn't understand the words, but the meaning was clear: they wanted her to take what they needed, and no one would stop them.
It was a small, simple gesture, but in a world that had been chaos and fear for so long, it felt monumental. They could eat, regain strength, and start learning how to live in this new life among these people.
As they finished eating, the man from the previous day approached again—the tall one with the spear and the quiet, watchful eyes. He moved with confidence, but not aggression, and when he reached them, he slowed, lowering his posture just a little as if not to startle them.
Her daughter pressed closer to her side, but didn't hide this time.
The man glanced between them, then pointed toward a large wooden bowl near the hearth. Inside it was cool, clear water collected from bamboo tubes. He tapped the bowl lightly with the back of his fingers and said, slowly and clearly:
"Náru."
The mother blinked. "Náru?" she repeated carefully.
His eyes lit up with quiet approval. His smile—unexpectedly soft and almost shy—touched his whole face. It made him look younger, less like a warrior and more like a human being trying to bridge a gap.
He nodded. "Náru," he repeated with gentle emphasis, then gestured to the water again.
Next, he picked up one of the fruits on the table—a round, reddish-orange one. He held it toward her daughter, not too close, giving her plenty of space. Then he said:
"Meko."
Her daughter whispered it back, "Meko?"
The man smiled again, broader this time, pleased. He repeated the word, tapping the fruit lightly before placing it back on the table.
Then he reached for a small piece of roasted meat and lifted it carefully with two fingers.
"Daru."
The woman nodded, repeating, "Daru."
Her daughter tried too, her voice tiny but determined. "Daru."
The man actually chuckled—a warm, low sound—and pointed at the girl with an expression that unmistakably said good job.
Something in her chest loosened.
A tension she didn't even realize she had been gripping slowly melted.
It was the first real moment of connection—a bridge forming word by word.
The man then tapped his own chest gently.
"Kehnu."
His name?
She mirrored the gesture, pointing toward herself.
"…Anna," she said quietly, giving her real name before she could second-guess it.
He repeated it with surprising ease.
"Anna."
Simple, clean, almost melodic in his accent.
Her daughter stepped forward, pressing her tiny hand to her own chest.
"Kate."
"Kah-teh," he echoed carefully, smiling down at her in that same gentle way.
Her daughter giggled, cheeks warming.
Anna watched the exchange, her heart thudding—not with fear, but with something unfamiliar. Relief. Gratitude.
And… something else. Something she pushed aside for now.
The man—Kehnu—made a small gesture with his hand, as if painting a circle in the air, then pointing toward the forest.
Teaching more?
Showing more?
Anna nodded lightly, just enough to show she understood some part of his intention.
He smiled once more, bowed his head slightly, and stepped back—but not before giving a last glance at the girl as if reassuring her she was safe.
When he left, her daughter tugged her sleeve.
"Mom… he's nice."
Anna exhaled softly, watching Kehnu's broad back disappear behind the huts.
"Yes," she murmured. "I think he is."
Later that morning, as the village settled into its quiet rhythm, the older woman—the one who had first approached them—came walking toward Anna's hut. Her steps were slow but steady, and she carried a small bundle of wide, dark-green leaves folded neatly under her arm.
Anna stood up instinctively, unsure what the woman wanted.
The elder smiled warmly and gestured for her and Kate to follow.
They exchanged a glance, then stepped outside, staying close together.
The old woman led them toward a narrow path behind the huts, where a small spring trickled gently through smooth stones. The air there felt cooler, fresher. The woman pointed to the water:
"Náru…" she said softly, reinforcing the word Kehnu had taught earlier.
Anna nodded. "Náru… yes."
Then the woman lifted one of the green leaves, rubbing its surface between her palms. She added a few drops of spring water, and as she pressed the leaf, a faint foam began to form—thin, silvery, and surprisingly fragrant.
Anna blinked, unsure what she was being shown.
The old woman rubbed the foam onto her own wrists, demonstrating.
Anna watched, confused.
The elder repeated the gesture—leaf, water, foam—then gently took Anna's hand, rubbing a bit of the foam onto her skin. It felt smooth, slippery, almost… cleansing?
"Oh," Anna breathed quietly as realization dawned.
"Soap… natural soap."
The old woman didn't understand the word, but she recognized the recognition. She smiled broadly, her wrinkles folding like warm blankets.
Kate stepped closer, curious.
"Mom… can we use it?"
Anna nodded. "It looks safe. Yes—let's try."
The elder woman gestured them forward toward the shallow pool of the spring. Anna hesitated—she was still wearing the tattered, salt-stained clothes she had survived the wave in. But she saw no shame or judgment in the old woman's eyes, only encouragement.
Slowly, Anna knelt and dipped her hands into the cold water, washing her arms with the gentle foam. It felt surprisingly effective—lifting dirt, sweat, and grime from days of exhaustion. Kate followed, laughing softly at the slippery bubbles clinging to her fingers.
The old woman clapped delightedly at the sound of Kate's laughter.
Then, from her bundle, she unfolded what looked like primitive clothing—woven layers of broad, dried palm fibers stitched together with vine fibers. They were shaped into simple tops and skirts, surprisingly sturdy.
Anna stared at them in disbelief.
They looked fragile, yet when the elder placed one into her hands, it felt firm, almost like a soft, bendable leather.
She whispered, "How… how does this even stay together?"
Kate pressed a fingertip into the fabric and gasped. "Mom! It's strong!"
The old woman pointed between the clothes and the two of them, then made a small rotating gesture as if telling them: change, clean, fresh.
Anna hesitated but felt the grime on her skin, the dampness in her old clothes, the smell of sweat from days of running and fear.
They needed this.
She nodded. "Thank you… thank you so much."
The old woman didn't understand the words, but her smile said she understood the emotion.
Anna and Kate moved behind a screen of broad ferns while the elder waited respectfully out of sight. They cleaned themselves with the foamy leaves and changed into the tribal-made clothing.
The material hugged their skin softly—cool, light, and shockingly comfortable.
When they stepped out again, the old woman looked at them with bright, proud eyes, nodding as if approving their transformation.
Kate twirled once, the leaf skirt swaying.
"It's… it's like we're in a story, Mom," she whispered.
Anna touched her new clothing gently, still amazed.
"Yes… it really does feel like a new chapter."
The old woman nodded again and patted Anna's arm before turning to lead them back toward the village—cleaner, clothed, and feeling more human than they had since the day everything changed.