The child returned the next morning, a little earlier than Jake expected, early enough that the shelter still held the cold of night. She carried a small basket woven from reeds, the handle almost too big for her hands. Inside were fruits shaped like lanterns, glowing faintly as if they remembered yesterday's sunlight. She set the basket between them, then sat cross-legged and waited with a patience that felt older than she was.
Hunger tugged at Jake immediately. It had been doing that since he arrived-quiet, sharp, embarrassing in its honesty. His eyes drifted to the fruit, and for a moment, instinct tried to overrule everything else. But he didn't reach. He'd learned enough to know the rules here were gentle but firm.
The child tapped her chest, then pointed to the basket. An offering. Permission.
Jake pressed a hand to his chest in return. His voice would have felt too loud in the morning stillness, so he didn't speak. The child lifted one of the lantern-fruits with both hands, cracked it open with a soft pop, and set half in front of him. The inside smelled like citrus and rainwater.
He copied her movements-both hands, slight bow-hoping he wasn't doing it wrong. The fruit tasted delicate, almost shy. Warmth spread through him in a way that meals back home never quite managed. He realised he had grown used to eating like a ghost: quick, silent, forgettable.
They ate slowly. The child chewed with the seriousness of someone performing a small ceremony. When Jake reached for a second piece too quickly, she gently shook her head. Not scolding-just reminding. She tapped the basket, then her chest, then his. A rhythm he was beginning to understand: ask, receive, return.
Jake bowed, properly this time, and waited. The child laughed-silent, but unmistakable-and handed him another piece. He felt his face warm in a way he hadn't expected.
When they finished, she showed him how to fold the empty fruit skins. Her fingers moved quickly, confidently, pressing edges together until they turned into little star shapes. She tied hers with a ribbon from her wrist. Jake tried to follow, though his first two attempts collapsed into damp folds. His third attempt held, barely. The child tied his star beside hers on a branch overhead. The cluster of stars glowed faintly, as if approving the effort more than the result.
Jake stood there for a moment, watching the small lights tremble in the breeze. Back home, meals had been solitary-cardboard containers on a cluttered table, the soft hum of a refrigerator filling the silence. Here, even eating fruit felt like a conversation.
When the basket was empty, the child tapped her chest again and pointed toward the shelter. A promise: [she would return. And he should be ready to receive, not merely take.]
Jake tied a ribbon to the branch outside his shelter, marking the place where the shared meal had begun. The thread on his wrist pulsed, a small acknowledgment he didn't fully understand but felt all the same.
Inside, he wrote on the wall:[Food is not taken. It is given, and giving makes it whole.]
The ink shimmered before settling. Jake touched the new ribbon on his wrist and felt a quiet certainty-he was learning, slowly, how to belong.