Legend

Rico entered the forest when the sky began to turn pink, walking on a carpet of ripe red and black fruit — he sought neither path nor return. When he found a small spring among humid roots, he knew that would be his last place. He knelt, hands together to take a little water. It was not cold as it should be — it was warm, seeking his palms as if alive. Nkya did not appear with voice or thunder; she wrapped him slowly among golden glints forgotten by the sun. The weight in his chest did not disappear, but became lighter, winnable; he felt the heartbeat, fresh air and the sweet smell of the forest. The night inside him became dawn. He was not healed, but he was alive — and under Nkya's silent gaze, that was enough to begin again.

Two long straws to lift the cloud of cream.