The crackling of fire filled the air, mingling with the soft bubbling of a small pot. The scent of fresh fish drifted through the clearing, blending with the crisp morning breeze.
Claire sat in quiet observation.
The boy was crouched beside the fire, tending to the fish he had caught. He moved with practiced ease, flipping the skewered fish over the flames while keeping an eye on the simmering pot.
It was strange.
He looked like a boy not more than twelve, yet the way he worked… the confidence in his hands, the efficiency in his movements—this wasn't something a child had just learned. This was instinct, something built over years of survival.
And yet, despite that, he was lively. Full of energy, full of life. His presence radiated warmth, as if the worries of the world had no place here.
Claire exhaled softly.
The feeling was foreign to her.
She was lost, deep within an unfamiliar forest, with no certainty of what lay ahead. Just last night, she had been running blindly, drowning in the weight of her own choices.
Yet now… she felt safe.
The realization settled in her chest, quiet but firm. She had never known this kind of security—this odd comfort in the unknown.
Her gaze drifted toward the boy again.
His messy brown hair framed his face, wild and unkempt, yet it suited him. A small section on one side was braided, not long but just enough to hang like a short pigtail—an odd but fitting detail.
His eyes, the same shade as his hair, reflected something beyond just curiosity—something familiar, something warm. They weren't just brown; they carried the richness of the forest—the earthy hues of wood, the deepness of soil, the golden flickers of dried leaves catching the light. There was a quiet strength in them, one that felt grounded, unshaken by the unknown.
A child's face, yet a presence that didn't quite match.
"Here, eat this!"
His voice snapped her out of her thoughts.
He held out a small wooden bowl, steam rising from the watery soup inside. Bits of wild herbs and mushrooms floated at the surface—ingredients likely gathered from the forest. It didn't look particularly appetizing, but the scent was surprisingly pleasant.
Claire took the bowl hesitantly.
She lifted it to her lips, tasting the broth.
It was… unexpectedly good.
He watched her expectantly, eyes shining. "How is it? Good, right!?"
Claire swallowed, nodding slightly.
His grin widened. "I knew it! It's my secret recipe!" He puffed out his chest with pride, as if he had just served a royal feast.
Then, without hesitation, he handed her a perfectly grilled fish. "Eat this too!"
Claire accepted it with a quiet "Thanks."
He plopped down across from her, his excitement never waning. "My name is Ken. You can call me that."
She hesitated for a moment, then answered, "Claire."
The name tasted heavy on her tongue.
Ken tilted his head, then suddenly burst into laughter. "Hahah! Oh man, your name itself shouts you're from somewhere up!"
Claire stiffened slightly.
"I could tell from your dress," he added proudly, as if confirming a great discovery.
Her fingers instinctively curled around the torn fabric of her skirt.
Then, his next words came, casual yet certain.
"You escaped?"
Claire coughed, nearly choking on the piece of fish in her mouth.
Her eyes widened, caught completely off guard.
It wasn't Are you lost? or Did you get hurt?—questions anyone would normally ask.
Why would he assume that?
Ken didn't press further. He simply smiled. "You don't have to tell me."
His voice held an odd knowingness, like he had already figured out the answer.
Claire lowered her gaze, silently pulling a piece of fish from the skewer. She ate without a word, her focus fixed on the ground.
After a moment, Ken spoke again, this time lighter.
"Your dress is all torn. Wanna change into something? You must be feeling dirty."
She glanced at him, blinking.
He rummaged through his belongings before pulling out a neatly folded set of clothes. A simple tunic and a skirt. He handed them to her.
"You can wash yourself in the stream down there," he said. "Try not to wet your arm, though—I don't have anything to redress that."
Claire took the clothes, hesitating as her fingers brushed over the fabric.
Something felt odd.
She looked at him, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "Why do you have—"
Before she could finish, Ken murmured softly, almost as if speaking to himself.
"That's my mom's."
Claire stilled.
For the first time, his voice carried something different.
It wasn't sadness, but something distant—like a memory too far away to hold.
She didn't ask anything more.
Instead, she nodded, gripping the clothes a little tighter.
As she walked toward the stream, a single thought lingered in her mind.
I can't read him.
He feels… older than me.
Not in age.
But in the way he spoke. The way he carried himself.
The way he took care of her.