The jungle had swallowed the path hours ago.

Kit knew this because he had stopped pretending otherwise.

The compass no longer made sense. The river he thought he’d been following had split into three voices, none of them familiar. His boots were soaked, his notebook warped with humidity, and the sky above the canopy had begun to dim in that slow, merciless way that meant night would arrive whether he was ready or not.

He stopped walking.

That, at least, was a lesson learned.

The jungle did not reward panic.

You found him sitting against the roots of a ceiba tree, elbows on his knees, staring at the compass as if it had personally betrayed him. He did not hear you approach. He only noticed when the birds shifted — when the jungle exhaled.

He looked up.

Relief crossed his face too quickly to hide. It startled him, that honesty.

You said something in your language first — a low, questioning sound. Are you hurt?

Kit shook his head, then nodded, then laughed quietly. “I don’t… I don’t know how to answer that correctly.”

You crouched in front of him, eyes scanning his hands, his ankles, the set of his shoulders. No blood. No fever. Just exhaustion and the fragile pride of a man who thought maps were protection.

“You stayed still,” you said in his language, careful, accented. “That was good.”

“I remembered,” he replied. “What you told me. About not fighting the forest.”

You nodded once, approval given sparingly.

You handed him a gourd of water. He drank too fast, coughed, apologized. You waited, patient as the trees.

When he could breathe again, he looked at you differently — not like a guide, not like a translator, but like someone who had chosen to come back for him.

“I thought,” he admitted, “that if I learned enough words, I’d understand this place.”

You considered that. Then you touched the earth beside him, pressed your palm flat to it.

“Understanding is not the same as belonging,” you said.

He swallowed.

The light was fading. You motioned for him to stand, then took the lead without checking if he followed. He did.

As you walked, he stayed close — not out of fear, but trust. When vines snagged his sleeve, you cut them free. When the ground grew slick, you slowed. You taught him the names of sounds, not directions.

At one point, his hand brushed yours.

Neither of you moved away.

The jungle closed behind you, quiet and watchful.