The forest didn't forget the rain.
Even after the clouds broke and light filtered through the leaves again, everything stayed slick. Mud clung to my boots. Wet branches brushed my sleeves. The ground looked solid right up until it wasn't.
Porlyusica walked ahead like the forest owed her space.
It didn't.
I followed, eyes up, then down, then up again. Every step felt like a question.
"…Is it just me," I said, "or does the ground look innocent on purpose?"
"It is innocent," she replied. "You're the one stepping on it."
"…Rude."
She stopped near a narrow path that dipped between two rocky rises. A trickle of water ran through the middle, shallow but fast.
She looked back at me. "Cross."
I frowned. "Jump or walk?"
"Yes."
I sighed, then crouched and studied the ground like she'd drilled into me. Stones were darker where water had soaked in. One rock looked solid but had a thin crack running through it.
"…That one breaks," I said, pointing.
She nodded.
"…That one slips."
Another nod.
I stepped where the water moved slower, planted my foot carefully, shifted my weight, then crossed without jumping.
On the other side, I exhaled.
"…Still alive."
"Expected," she said. "But good."
I smiled despite myself.
⸻
When the Forest Pushes Back
We didn't get far before the sound reached us.
Low. Heavy. Not loud, but wrong.
I stopped automatically.
Porlyusica didn't have to say anything.
Ahead, something moved between the trees. Large. Fur brushing bark. Not charging. Not hiding.
Watching.
"…Please tell me it's just a very ugly deer," I muttered.
"It's a boar," she said. "And it's injured."
That explained the stillness.
It stepped into view slowly. Thick body. One side favoring its leg. Small cuts along its flank.
Big enough to break bones if it charged.
I swallowed.
"…Run?"
She shook her head. "If it charges, yes. Right now—no."
I felt my hands twitch, the familiar buzz tightening inside me, like my body wanted to move before I chose how.
"Don't stare," she said quietly. "Animals read that as a challenge."
"…Of course they do."
I looked slightly aside, breathing steady, remembering the book. Injured animals are unpredictable. Pain makes them reckless.
The boar snorted, scraped the ground once—
Then turned and limped away into the brush.
I didn't move until the sound faded.
"…That," I said slowly, "was worse than running."
"Yes," she agreed. "Because you wanted to."
I laughed quietly, half nerves, half relief. "My legs are offended."
"They'll recover."
⸻
Lessons That Stick
We rested after that.
Not long. Just enough.
I pulled out one of the books, flipped to a page I'd marked the night before. There was a section on animal behavior—brief, blunt, practical.
I read it again.
"…It says injured animals don't want fights," I said. "They want space."
"And?"
"…And if you give them that, they usually take it."
She nodded. "Usually."
"…I hate that word."
"You'll learn to respect it."
⸻
Writing What Matters
That night, I wrote with dirt still on my hands.
Day 14.
Didn't run. Didn't fight. Didn't freeze.
Let something dangerous leave on its own.
Books weren't wrong today.
Forest doesn't attack for no reason. It reacts.
I paused, then added:
My body keeps answering before I ask. Need to listen—but not let it decide alone.
I closed the notebook and leaned back, staring up at the sky through the branches.
"…Hey," I said.
"What."
"If I keep doing this—running, reading, not dying—"
"Yes."
"…Will I ever stop being seven?"
She glanced over at me, eyes unreadable.
"You'll stop acting like it," she said. "That's not the same thing."
I smiled faintly.
The fire crackled softly. Somewhere far off, something howled—but distant enough not to matter tonight.
Tomorrow, the forest would ask more questions.
And I'd keep answering—one careful step at a time.