Cathy groaned softly, her head pounding as she blinked against the flickering orange light. The last thing she remembered was alarms, the jet shaking violently—oxygen masks falling, people screaming—and then, blackness.

Now, her eyes adjusted to the dim light of dusk. The scent of smoke filled her lungs—woodsmoke, not fuel. The ground beneath her wasn’t metal or plastic—it was soft, springy with damp earth and leaves. Her silk dress, once pristine and tailored for a gala, was torn at the hem, dirt and ash streaking the fabric. One heel was missing. Her hands were scratched, and her limbs ached like she’d been tossed around.

She shifted and winced. A fire crackled nearby, surrounded by stones, casting long shadows on the massive, ancient trees that twisted toward the sky.

Cathy’s breath hitched. This wasn’t a crash site. This was… a forest. Untouched. Wild. Unfamiliar.

Then something moved.

Her heart jumped, and she scrambled backward, stopping when she saw him.

A man—no, a boy her age—was crouched nearby, partially hidden by brush, watching her. His eyes were wide, curious, glowing faintly in the firelight. His skin was sun-golden, his black hair tied in a loose knot. His chest was bare, painted and beaded, and his pants looked handmade. No shoes. No tools. Nothing modern.

He blinked slowly, tilting his head like she was the strange one.

Cathy swallowed. “Wh… where am I?” she rasped, voice dry and weak.

He didn’t answer with words. Just raised a hand, pointed to the fire, then to her, and gave a small, shy nod.

She froze.

He didn’t speak English. Or maybe not at all.

But she understood. He’d made the fire. He brought her here. He meant no harm.

Her body trembled with adrenaline, but her muscles were too tired to run. Her brain too foggy to question. And… she wasn’t cold.