The sick child lived at the far edge of the barrio, where the houses grew thinner and the forest pressed closer—like it was slowly reclaiming what people borrowed.
Mau walked ahead, her steps quiet, her basket balanced carefully on her arm.
Lira followed behind, already complaining.
"If I get sick from this, I'm blaming you."
"You're already sick," Mau said mildly. "Just not physically."
"Wow. That was hurtful."
"Accurate."
Lira huffed. "You're getting meaner."
Mau glanced back at her, expression soft. "I'm getting honest."
"That's worse."
—
Inside the small hut, the air was heavy.
The child lay on a thin mat, breathing unevenly, his skin warm to the touch.
Mau knelt beside him, her presence immediately calmer than the room itself.
"Hello," she said gently.
The boy blinked up at her, weak but aware.
"Hi…"
She smiled faintly. "I'm Mau. I heard you've been giving your mother a hard time."
"I didn't mean to," he whispered.
"I know."
Her fingers rested lightly on his wrist.
Pulse—fast.
Breathing—shallow.
Her gaze sharpened almost imperceptibly.
"Lira," she said quietly.
"Yeah?"
"Open the windows."
"What? Why?"
"Please."
Lira did it, grumbling under her breath.
Fresh air slipped in, pushing out the stale heaviness.
Mau began working.
Grinding herbs.
Mixing.
Adjusting.
Her movements were slow, deliberate—but beneath that calm was something precise, almost surgical.
She wasn't guessing.
She was solving.
"You've done this before," the mother said softly, watching her.
Mau shook her head gently. "Not exactly."
"Then how do you—"
Mau paused.
Because she didn't know how to explain it.
"I listen," she said instead.
"To what?"
Mau glanced at the child.
Then at the way his chest rose unevenly.
Then at the faint discoloration near his throat.
"…To what others miss."
She helped the boy sit up, supporting him carefully.
"Drink this," she murmured.
He obeyed without question.
Something about her made people trust easily.
Maybe it was her voice.
Maybe it was the quiet certainty in her eyes.
Or maybe—
It was the way she never hesitated.
—
Hours passed.
The fever broke slowly.
The child's breathing steadied.
And the tension in the room softened into something fragile and hopeful.
"He's going to be okay," Mau said at last.
The mother covered her mouth, tears slipping through her fingers.
"Thank you… I don't know how to—"
Mau shook her head gently. "Just take care of him."
That was enough.
It always was.
—
On the walk back, Lira was unusually quiet.
Which, for Lira, was alarming.
"What?" Mau asked.
Lira glanced at her. "You're weird."
Mau nodded. "This is not new information."
"No, I mean—" Lira frowned. "You knew what to do. Like… really knew."
Mau looked ahead, where the trees thickened into shadow.
"…I just paid attention."
"That's not normal paying attention."
Mau smiled faintly.
"Then don't think about it too much."
"But I want to think about it."
"That's your first mistake."
Lira groaned. "You're impossible."
"Yet here I am."
—
Back at the hut, the night settled quietly.
Mau sat outside, knees drawn close, staring at the dark forest.
Tay Eming joined her without a sound.
"You are learning quickly," he said.
Mau nodded slightly. "Too quickly."
He didn't respond.
Because they both understood what that meant.
After a moment, Mau spoke again, softer this time.
"Tay… was I always like this?"
The question lingered in the air.
Heavy.
Careful.
Tay Eming looked at her—not the healer, not the student.
The child he found.
The girl who never quite fit the world around her.
"…Yes," he said.
Mau exhaled quietly.
Not relieved.
Not reassured.
Just… thoughtful.
Her fingers brushed the red mark beneath her ear again.
It felt warm.
Like it knew something she didn't.
And somewhere deep in the forest—
The wind shifted.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
But certain.
Like something had begun moving.
Something that had been waiting—
For her.