Morning in the Sierra Madre did not arrive loudly.
It slipped in gently—through the mist clinging to treetops, through the soft rustle of leaves waking from sleep, through the distant call of birds that sounded like secrets carried on the wind.
Mau was already awake.
She always was.
Barefoot, she moved across the damp earth behind their hut, her steps light enough that even the fallen leaves barely protested. A woven basket rested on her arm, slowly filling with herbs she picked with careful fingers—never rushed, never careless.
"Not this one," she murmured softly, brushing past a cluster of leaves. "You're not ready yet."
Her voice was quiet, almost shy—like it didn't want to disturb the forest.
If anyone from the nearby barrio saw her, they would've thought the same thing they always did:
That girl is too gentle for this world.
Inside the hut, Tay Eming watched from the doorway, arms folded loosely across his chest.
"Mau."
She turned immediately, a small smile forming as if it had been waiting for him.
"Good morning, Tay."
Her voice softened even more when she spoke to him—warm, sweet, unguarded in a way she allowed no one else to see.
"You woke early again," he said.
She stepped closer, placing the basket down. "The guava leaves are better before the sun gets too high. They hold more strength."
Tay Eming nodded once, though his eyes lingered on her—not the herbs, not the routine.
Her.
Mau knelt beside a clay pot, beginning to sort the leaves with delicate precision.
From the outside, she looked small.
Fragile, even.
Her movements were unhurried, her presence quiet enough to disappear in a crowd.
But Tay Eming knew better.
He had seen the way her hands never trembled—not when blood flowed, not when bones cracked, not when life hung by a thread.
He had seen the way her eyes changed.
Soft—until they weren't.
"Mau," he said again.
She looked up. "Yes, Tay?"
"Come."
No explanation.
She didn't ask for one.
She wiped her hands, stood, and followed him without a word.
They walked deeper into the forest, where the air grew cooler and the light filtered through thick branches in fractured patterns.
Tay stopped near a fallen tree.
"Sit."
Mau obeyed, folding her legs neatly beneath her.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Only silence.
Then—
A rustle.
Mau's gaze shifted slightly.
Not alarmed.
Not startled.
Just… aware.
A snake slithered from beneath the fallen trunk, its body gliding across the earth with quiet intent.
Most would've flinched.
Mau didn't move.
Her breathing stayed even. Her eyes followed the creature—not with fear, but with calm understanding.
The snake paused in front of her.
Testing.
Waiting.
Mau tilted her head just slightly, her voice barely above a whisper.
"You're not here to bite me."
The snake flicked its tongue.
Then slowly—
It moved past her.
Disappearing back into the undergrowth.
Tay Eming watched closely.
"You did not react," he said.
Mau looked down at her hands. "It wasn't necessary."
"And if it attacked?"
Her fingers curled faintly.
For a fleeting second—
Something in her expression sharpened.
Cold.
Precise.
Gone as quickly as it came.
"I would've stopped it," she said simply.
No bravado.
No fear.
Just fact.
Tay Eming exhaled slowly.
The forest had many children.
But this one—
This one did not belong to it.