The rooster crowed before dawn. In the valley below the mountain, doors creaked open, and men with bent backs and sun-darkened arms made their way to the fields. May was harvest month—the last before the rains arrived.
On a bamboo bench by the roadside, two elderly women sat together, their canes resting against their knees.
"Has Adrian come down from the forest yet?" one asked, squinting toward the tree line.
"Not yet," the other sighed. "My roof still leaks when the night dew settles. I've been waiting on him to fix it."
Another neighbor passed with a basket of laundry. "Let me know when you see him. My water jugs are too heavy. He always helps me."
"I need oregano for tea," the first added. "Adrian is the only one who knows where it grows by the creek."
They all chuckled softly, as if the young man belonged to everyone, as if the forest itself had loaned him to the town.
By the time the sun touched the tops of the palms, Adrian appeared, walking down the narrow path from the trees. His shirt sleeves were rolled, a woven basket on his back filled with branches for repairs, gourds of fresh water, and neat bundles of herbs. He moved with an easy stride, smiling as neighbors called his name.
"Adrian, thank you!"
"There he is—always ready to help."
He returned their greetings with a nod, a laugh, a kind word. In the next hour he patched a roof, carried water jugs without spilling a drop, and pressed oregano leaves into a waiting hand. Children ran after him, tugging at his arms, begging for stories. Farmers hailed him with waves, and even stray dogs followed at his heels.
To the old and the young, Adrian was dependable. Strong, generous, always willing. And yet, when the errands were done and the neighbors blessed him as if he were their own, he slipped back toward the forest, as though the trees were his true home.
Inside a quiet house at the far end of the village, she sat on the floor with her grandmother's clothes laid out around her. The scent of cotton and woodsmoke clung to the faded fabric. She pressed a blouse to her face, eyes stinging.
It had been years since she had last stepped into this house. Summers as a child had been spent here—running barefoot in the yard, listening to her grandmother's stories by lamplight. But after that strange, half-forgotten summer when she had gotten lost, she never returned.
Now she was back only to pack what was left behind.
Her fingers lingered over the fabric. "Lola," she whispered, folding the blouse carefully into a bag.
Emma stepped outside, the morning air heavy with the scent of earth and sun-warmed grass. She needed a break from the dust and silence of her grandmother's house, from the endless folding of clothes that still carried the woman's scent.
She walked a little way down the dirt path that edged the property. At the well, a man was filling a gourd with water, his back straight, movements unhurried. When he turned, she caught his eyes.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then he smiled faintly, as though he had been expecting her. "So. You came back."
Emma blinked. "Excuse me?"
He wiped his hands on his shirt and stepped closer. "Adrian." He extended a hand.
"Emma," she answered cautiously, shaking it. His grip was warm, steady.
Something about his face tugged at her memory, though she couldn't place it. "Have we met before?" she asked.
His smile thinned. "You don't remember."
Her brows knit. "Should I?"
He reached into his pocket and pressed a small brass compass into her palm. Its surface was worn, the needle trembling faintly under the glass.
"Keep this," he said softly. "Don't get lost here."
Without another word, he turned and walked down the path. By the time Emma looked up again, he was gone, the forest swallowing his tall frame as if it had always belonged to him.
She stood still, unsettled. In her palm, the compass ticked faintly, its needle trembling.
Adrian did not linger. There was still work to do. By midday he would be at the research station, logging plant samples, checking soil markers before the rains. But for now, he carried only the memory of her face — and the ache that she had not remembered his.