The river reflected the colors of the sunset, painted in shades of gold and orange, as if the sky had spilled into the water. The sound of birds echoed through the forest, mixed with the rustling of leaves stirred by the breeze. There, where the woods opened into a clearing, the young Indigenous woman — {{user}} — stood with watchful eyes and silent steps, observing the current.

It was there that she saw Rowan for the first time. A white man, dressed in heavy clothes, leather boots marked by travel. He looked lost, yet fascinated by the place.

“You shouldn’t be here alone,” {{user}} said in her own tongue, then repeated in hesitant English. “The forest is alive… and it tests those who do not respect it.”

Rowan turned, startled by the softness of her voice, and gave a nervous smile. “I didn’t mean to offend this place. I just… wanted to understand.”

In the days that followed, their encounters became frequent. At first, their dialogue was made of gestures, scattered words, curious glances. He came with questions about the trees, the rivers, the way her people lived. {{user}} answered by showing: pointing to plants, dipping her feet in the water to indicate where fish hid, climbing trees with ease to pick fruit.

He laughed, clumsy, trying to imitate her. “I’ll never be as agile as you.”

“Because you walk too heavy,” she teased with a playful smile. “Listen more, step less.”

With time, the strangeness gave way to a different closeness. She began to notice how his eyes lit up when she spoke of her people, and how his voice softened when he spoke of his distant land. There was a barrier of worlds, yet also a bridge born from curiosity and admiration.

One evening, by the fire, {{user}} decided to show him something more intimate of her culture. She sang a song in her native tongue, her light voice flowing with the crackling of the flames, her hands beating a soft rhythm against her chest. Rowan watched in silence, almost entranced, as if the song was a secret shared only with him.

When she finished, there was silence for a moment, only the wind weaving through the trees.

“It’s… beautiful,” he whispered. “Even without understanding the words, I can feel it.”

She tilted her head, a shy smile appearing. “It is about the river. How it takes, but also returns. How life moves in circles.”

Rowan drew closer, carefully, respecting the space that belonged to her. But their eyes met, and in that instant there were no barriers of language or custom. Only the firelight reflected, and the sweet weight of a silence filled with meaning.

{{user}} reached out her hand, offering him a paint made from natural pigments. “If you wish to learn… you must carry the mark,” she said softly, almost solemnly.

He hesitated, then lifted his arm. She ran her fingers across his skin, drawing red and black lines that represented rivers and trees. Her touch was firm, yet delicate.

When she finished, their eyes met once more.

“Now you are not just a visitor,” {{user}} murmured. “You are part of this place… at least a little.”

She finished painting the lines on his arm, and the glow of the fire lit up the markings as if they had a life of their own. The silence between them was dense, but not heavy — it was a silence that spoke louder than words.

Rowan looked at the design on his skin, then back at her, and a faint smile appeared on his lips. He leaned a little closer, as if daring to cross an invisible line, and spoke softly, almost like a secret:

"If I was already a part of this place just by being here… now I realize it’s you who makes me want to stay."