I stopped counting days when I realized it didn't matter.
Morning came when the light changed. Night came when the fire was fed or left to die. Everything else fell in between, shaped by what hurt and what didn't.
"Don't waste."
That was the first rule.
The old man said it while handing me a strip of cloth and a bowl of hot water. The steam stung my eyes. My side still burned when I breathed too deeply.
"Do what?" I asked.
He looked at me, then at the water. "Anything."
I learned what he meant when I spilled it.
It was clumsy. My hands shook, unsure how much force was too much. The water sloshed onto the dirt floor and vanished immediately.
The old man didn't raise his voice.
He took the bowl from me, refilled it, and waited.
The silence was worse than shouting.
When he handed it back, I moved slower. Watched my hands. Thought about where every drop went.
"Better," he said.
That was all.
The second rule came later.
"Don't rush."
I had been trying to tie the cloth the way he showed me. Tight enough to hold. Loose enough to breathe. I failed twice.
"It'll close faster if I—" I started.
"No," he said.
Just that. No explanation.
I tied it again. Slower. Painfully slow. When I finished, my fingers were numb and my jaw ached from clenching it.
He checked the binding, adjusted it a fraction, then stepped back.
"Better."
I remembered the way the elders used to correct me. Loud. Public. Final.
This was different.
Here, mistakes didn't make you sinful.
They made you dead.
The third rule came without warning.
"Don't lie to yourself."
We were outside then, standing near the edge of the clearing. Trees pressed in on all sides, tall and indifferent. I could hear something moving in the distance—too heavy to be wind.
"I can walk," I said.
The old man watched me take three steps.
Then I fell.
He didn't help me up right away.
"Say it again," he said.
I swallowed. My leg trembled.
"I can't," I said.
He nodded once and offered his hand.
That was how the days went.
Not lessons. Corrections.
I learned how to boil water without wasting heat. How to sit still long enough for pain to fade instead of fighting it. How to listen—to the forest, to my body, to the old man when he spoke and when he didn't.
Weeks passed. Maybe months.
The animals stopped fleeing the moment I stepped outside. They didn't come closer either. Birds watched from branches. Something with heavy steps circled wide at night, never crossing into the light.
The forest didn't welcome me.
But it stopped rejecting me.
Sometimes I asked questions.
"Why here?"
The old man shrugged. "Because it works."
"Why help me?"
He considered that longer.
"You didn't ask to be saved," he said. "You were already trying."
That answer stayed with me.
He never asked where I came from. Never asked my name. Never asked why my wrists bore scars that hadn't healed right.
I was grateful for that.
One morning, he prepared to leave as he always did.
Knife. Pack. A quick look at the sky.
"How long?" I asked.
He paused, then said, "Long enough."
I watched him disappear between the trees, his steps quiet, practiced.
I returned to the fire and fed it the way he taught me. Not too much. Not too little.
The light held.
By the time night fell, he still hadn't returned.
I told myself not to rush.
Not to lie to myself.
And not to waste what he'd given me by assuming he always would.
In the forest, ordinary things disappeared first.