The child arrived at dawn, ribbons trailing from her wrists like soft banners. She beckoned Jake with a tilt of her head, no words, only certainty. He followed the thread of light on his wrist, pulsing faintly as if it knew the way.
They walked through the forest until the trees opened into a wide clearing. Dozens of figures stood in a circle, each holding a ribbon or a small object that glowed lightly. The air was quiet, not silent but filled with expectation, like the pause before rain.
Jake hesitated at the edge. The child tugged his sleeve gently, guiding him into the circle. A space opened for him, as though the group had been waiting. He pressed his hand to his chest, bowing slightly. The gesture was returned by those around him. He felt included, though he didn't yet understand.
At the centre of the circle lay a woven mat covered in objects: coins, ribbons, scraps of light, folded leaves. One by one, the figures stepped forward, placed their offering on the mat, and performed a gesture. Some bowed, some pressed their palms together, some traced shapes in the air. Each gesture seemed to carry meaning, though Jake could only guess.
When it was his turn, the child handed him a ribbon. He stepped forward, heart thudding, and placed it carefully on the mat. He pressed his hand to his chest, then opened his palms outward—the gesture he had learned from the silent figure. The circle hummed softly, a sound like approval. Jake exhaled, relieved.
The ritual continued. After every offering, the mat glowed faintly, absorbing the gifts without consuming them. Jake realised this was not a sacrifice but sharing. Each object was returned at the end, transformed slightly—ribbons brighter, coins warmer, scraps of light steadier. The act of giving had changed them.
When the ritual ended, the child tied the renewed ribbon back onto Jake's wrist. It pulsed once, stronger than before. He understood: participation had deepened the bond. He was no longer just observing; he was part of the rhythm.
As the circle dispersed, Jake lingered. He noticed how the figures moved—slow, deliberate, respectful. No one rushed. Every gesture was considered. He thought of his own world, where meals were hurried, conversations clipped, gestures careless. Here, even silence was full of meaning.
The child tugged his sleeve again, pointing toward the shelter. Jake nodded, following her back through the forest. His wrist felt heavy with ribbons, but not burdened—weighted with belonging.
Inside the shelter, he wrote on the wall: Gestures are bridges.
They carry meaning where words cannot. The ink shimmered, then settled. Another vow, another step forward.
That night, Jake dreamed of circles—rings of stones, rings of fire, rings of people. Always circles, always gestures. He woke with the sense that the world was teaching him not through commands, but through patterns. And he was beginning to see them.