The afternoon jungle felt heavy, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath. Lori sat on the edge of the old wooden bridge, tiny fingers hooked around a frayed rope, eyes glossy and searching. She had always been the brave one, the first to climb, the first to laugh. But today, her courage was tangled in the shadows. A few meters away, Achep’s cry ripped through the stillness—high, desperate, and jagged, like glass scraping across stone. It was the sound that makes your heart trip over itself, the kind of crying you don’t just hear, you feel.
Achep had always been Lori’s loud friend, the companion who darted ahead and then spun around to make sure she was still following. Now his voice trembled from somewhere down the bank, where a tangle of vines dipped into a shallow ditch. Lori hesitated, one foot stretching toward the uncertain path, then drawing back just as quickly. She chirped to him, a small, hopeful sound that tried to be brave, and the forest answered with Achep’s reply—another burst of frantic, breathless screaming that sent birds clattering up from the canopy.
People think the jungle is only green and gold and wild freedom, but there are hours like this, thick with worry. Lori swung down from the rope and crept along the embankment, leaf litter whispering under her feet. Achep’s small form flickered into view—caught where the vines had looped like careless hands. He wasn’t hurt badly, just frightened and too tangled to remember how to be clever. That happens, even to the bold ones.
Lori stilled. She watched him, eyes wide, chest fluttering. Then, in that soft-bright way only the young can manage, she began to talk to him—little chirps, small clucks, a steady rhythm that said, “I’m here.” Achep’s crying faltered. The screaming tapered into hiccups of sound. Lori edged closer, testing each twig like a tightrope walker. With tiny, deliberate movements, she tugged a vine aside, then another, her fingers doing their careful dance. Achep, soothed by her nearness, softened enough to help himself—tucking and wriggling until the last loop slid free.
For a beat, they just breathed together—their shoulders rising and falling in sync, two small hearts counting the same seconds. Then Achep leaned into her, and Lori pressed her forehead to his, a touch so simple it could break you. The jungle exhaled. A breeze threaded through the bridge ropes; the leaves resumed their murmuring.
They didn’t race away. They sat. Achep nibbled a curled leaf; Lori traced a line in the dust with one gentle fingertip. Sometimes, comfort isn’t loud or quick. It’s a pause shared between friends, a promise silently renewed. When they finally moved, it was together—Lori leading with cautious confidence, Achep following with a quiet that wasn’t fear anymore but relief.
If you wanted to cry with Lori, it wasn’t just Achep’s screaming that did it. It was the way she listened, the way she stayed, the way small kindness can be louder than panic. In the hush that followed, they carried on, braver than before.
