The morning after the night of small fires, Jake stepped outside expecting the figure. Instead, he found the child from the gathering waiting at the edge of the shelter. She held a ribbon in her hands, green and frayed, and watched him with the kind of patience only children seem to have.
Jake hesitated. He wasn't sure if he should speak, gesture, or simply wait. The child solved the problem by tying the ribbon loosely around his wrist, beside the others. Then she tapped her chest twice, a gesture that felt like an introduction.
"Jake," he softly whispered, pressing his hand to his chest in return. The child smiled, not with her mouth but with her eyes, and repeated the gesture. It was enough. They had exchanged names without words.
She beckoned him towards the trees. Jake followed, careful to match her pace. The path led to a small clearing where ribbons hung from branches like lanterns. Each one carried a faint hum, as if storing fragments of laughter. The child reached up, untied a ribbon, and handed it to him. Jake remembered the rule—ask before taking—and bowed slightly before accepting. The ribbon pulsed once, then quieted.
Together they tied the ribbon to a branch. The hum grew louder, filling the clearing with a sound like distant bells. Jake realised this was a game, or maybe a ritual: tying ribbons to awaken memories stored in the air. The child laughed silently, her shoulders shaking, and Jake found himself smiling too.
For the first time since arriving, he felt less alone. The child didn't explain the rules, but she trusted him to learn by watching. That trust was its own kind of language.
When the game ended, she untied one ribbon and placed it in his palm. It glowed faintly, then faded. A gift, or perhaps a reminder. She tapped her chest again, then pointed towards the shelter. Jake understood she would return, and he should keep the ribbon safe until then.
Back inside, he tied the new ribbon beside the others. The wall of the shelter seemed to breathe with quiet approval. He wrote a line beneath the others: Companionship begins with trust, not words.
The ink shimmered, then settled. Jake touched the ribbon on his wrist and felt, for the first time, that he belonged to something larger than himself.