Jake woke to the sound of soft rustling outside his shelter. When he stepped out, he found the child waiting with a bundle wrapped in woven leaves. It was larger than anything she had brought before.
When she handed it to him, Jake's arms dropped six inches before his muscles could catch the load. The woven leaves were rough, and the contents shifted with a dull, heavy clatter that sent a tremor up his elbows. It wasn't a burden yet, but it was a presence—a solid, unyielding 'something' that demanded he pay attention to his own balance.
She tapped the bundle, then tapped his shoulder. Carry. A simple instruction, but her eyes held something deeper. Jake nodded, adjusting the bundle in his arms.
They walked through the forest, the morning light filtering through the canopy in shifting patterns. The bundle grew heavier with each step—not physically, but in the way responsibility settles into the body.
The straps—mere twisted vines—began to saw into the soft skin of his palms. He tried cradling the bundle like a child, then heaving it onto one shoulder, but the weight was spiteful; it wanted to pull him toward the dirt. He felt a bead of sweat track a cold line down his spine. He looked at the child for help, but her gaze was fixed on the path ahead, as indifferent as the trees.
Eventually, she stopped and pointed to a fallen log. Jake sat, grateful for the pause. The child took the bundle from him and placed it on the ground. She tapped the earth, then tapped his chest. Weight belongs somewhere. Jake frowned, unsure.
She lifted the bundle again, but instead of holding it in her arms, she placed it on her back, securing it with a ribbon. The weight settled evenly across her shoulders. She stood straight, unburdened by the load.
He fumbled with the ribbons, his breath coming in short, frustrated huffs as he tried to copy her. But as the bundle finally settled against the flat of his shoulder blades, the world seemed to tilt back into place. The pulling at his arms vanished. It wasn't that the stones had become lighter; it was that they had stopped fighting him. His skeleton was doing the work now, not just his tired muscles.
He mimicked her, tying the bundle to his back. The weight shifted, becoming manageable, almost natural. The child nodded, pleased, and they continued walking.
The path grew steeper, winding upward toward a ridge. Jake felt the weight pressing into his spine, but it no longer pulled him off balance. Instead, it grounded him. Each step felt deliberate, connected to the earth beneath him.
At the top of the ridge, the child stopped. She pointed to the horizon where the sky's faint lines shimmered. Then she tapped the bundle on Jake's back. Weight guides. Jake inhaled slowly, letting the meaning settle. The burdens he carried—memories, mistakes, lessons—were not obstacles. They were anchors.
The child untied her own bundle and placed it on the ground. Jake did the same. Together, they opened the woven leaves. Inside were stones—smooth, warm, each marked with a symbol: spirals, lines, circles. The symbols echoed the lessons Jake had learned: listening, patience, navigation, silence.
The child picked up one stone and placed it in Jake's hands. It was marked with a broken line. She tapped the stone, then tapped his chest.
[Mistake]
Jake swallowed. The memory of his misstep in the ritual flickered through him.
She placed another stone beside it—this one marked with a closed circle. Return. Jake felt his throat tighten. The lesson was clear, mistakes were part of the weight he carried, but so were the ways he corrected them.
One by one, she handed him stones, each representing a lesson. Jake placed them back into the bundle, feeling the weight shift with each addition. The stone with the broken line felt colder than the others. As his fingers traced the jagged mark, the heat of his old shame—the failed gesture, the silence of the circle—flared in his chest like an ember. He didn't just place it in the bag; he lowered it in with a trembling hand, acknowledging that this weight was a part of him now, whether he liked it or not.
The child tied the bundle to his back again. This time, the weight felt right. Balanced. Earned.
They descended the ridge in silence. Jake felt the stones pressing gently against him, each one a reminder of the path he was walking. When they reached the shelter, the child tapped the bundle, then tapped his chest.
Carry with intention.
Sweat, shaky hands, aching muscles, cold stones, and the fumble of someone learning.
Jake sat in the dark for a long time, his back aching where the bundle had rested. He looked at the charcoal in his hand, then at the crowded wall of promises. Instead of writing a new vow, he simply leaned his head against the cool earth of the shelter wall. He didn't need a sentence to tell him he was tired. He just sat there, feeling the solid, heavy reality of the stones in the bag beside him—a weight he would have to pick up again tomorrow.
That night, he slept with the bundle beside him, comforted by its presence.