The morning after the navigation lesson, Jake woke to a soft tapping on the side of his shelter. The child stood outside, her ribbons fluttering in a breeze that hadn't existed a moment before. She pointed upward, then traced a slow spiral in the air. Jake understood today's lesson was above them.
They walked to a hill that rose gently from the forest floor. The climb was easy, but the air grew thinner, clearer, as if the world wanted them to see something without obstruction. When they reached the top, the child sat cross-legged and motioned for Jake to do the same.
The sky stretched wide, a pale blue canvas streaked with faint lines of light—lines Jake had never noticed before. They shimmered like threads woven into the air itself. The child pointed to the line, then tapped her wrist. Jake looked closer. The line pulsed faintly, matching the rhythm of the ribbons tied to his arm.
He felt a shiver. The sky was not empty. It was a map.
The child lifted her hand and traced a shape in the air—a curve, a dip, a sharp turn. Jake followed her gesture, watching how the lines above shifted slightly in response. They weren't fixed. They moved, breathed, adjusted. The sky was alive with direction.
She tapped her chest, then pointed to the horizon where the lines converged into a soft glow. Jake understood: the sky showed where the land wanted to lead. Not a destination, but a direction. A suggestion.
He tried tracing a shape of his own, hesitant at first. A simple arc. The lines above flickered, acknowledging him. The child nodded, pleased. She guided his hand, helping him draw a more complex pattern—one that spiralled inward before branching outward. The sky responded with a ripple of light, as if approving the attempt.
Jake felt a warmth spread through him. This was more than navigation. It was communication. The sky remembered every gesture, every intention. It held the memory of movement.
The child stood and pointed to a cluster of faint stars still visible in the daylight. She tapped her wrist again, then drew a line from the stars to the horizon. Jake followed the motion, realising the stars were not just distant lights—they were anchors. Fixed points in a shifting world.
He traced the line again, slower this time, feeling the rhythm of it. The child placed her hand over his, steadying his movement. Together, they drew the path once more. The sky shimmered, brighter now, as if the shared gesture carried more weight.
They stayed on the hill until the sun climbed high. The lines in the sky faded gradually, but Jake could still sense them, like echoes behind his eyes. The child tied a new ribbon to his wrist—pale blue, almost translucent. A ribbon for the sky. A ribbon for memory.
On the walk back, Jake felt different. Lighter. As if the world had opened another door for him. He glanced at the child, who walked with her usual quiet confidence. She had given him another piece of the world, and he felt the responsibility of holding it.
Back at the shelter, he wrote on the wall: The sky is not above us. It is with us, remembering every step we take. The ink shimmered, then settled. Another vow, another step forward.
That night, when he looked up, he saw the faint lines again, but present. And for the first time, he felt they were looking back.