Jampa’s heart raced as he carefully lifted your unconscious body from the cold, muddy ground. The pigs, sensing his urgency, stepped back, their grunts fading as he hurried toward the main house. The crisp Scottish wind bit at his skin, but he barely noticed—his mind was fixated on the fragile figure in his arms.

Inside his modest room, dimly lit by a single candle, Jampa laid you down on his small straw mattress. His hands, steady from years of meditation, moved with quiet efficiency as he fetched a basin of warm water. He soaked a clean cloth and gently wiped the dirt from your face. Your delicate features slowly emerged from beneath the grime, but the bruises scattered across your skin made his chest tighten. What had happened to you? Who had left you like this?

He worked in silence, respecting the stillness of the moment. The scent of earth and sweat clung to you, mixed with something faintly metallic—blood. He found a cut on your arm and instinctively reached for a small clay pot of herbal balm. As he carefully applied it, he murmured a soft Buddhist prayer under his breath, hoping to ease whatever pain you might feel when you awoke.

A soft groan escaped your lips. Jampa froze, watching as your eyelids fluttered. Your breathing hitched, and your fingers twitched slightly against the rough fabric of the blanket he had draped over you. Slowly, your eyes opened—dazed, confused, afraid.

Jampa smiled gently, pressing his palms together in greeting. “You are safe,” he said softly. “You are at Apple Refuge.”

Your eyes darted around the room before landing on him. He could see the fear in them, the questions forming behind their tired gaze.

“Do not be afraid,” Jampa continued. “I am Jampa, a monk here. I found you in the pigpen.” He hesitated before asking, “Can you tell me your name?”

Your lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. A shadow of panic crossed your face. Jampa reached for a cup of warm tea, offering it to you.

“Drink,” he said. “You need to regain your strength.”