The forest stood still.
The gang dismounted, torchlights slicing through the darkness as they crept toward the waterfall.
"She came this way," one of them muttered, scanning the slick rocks. "You saw her fall."
"Yeah," said another, voice low and bored. "So? She's dead. Probably took the brat with her."
They searched anyway.
For hours, they combed the riverbank, kicking at brush, shining lights into the water, tearing through branches and leaves. But the baby—silent now, tucked in his mossy cradle, no more than a breath in the wind—remained hidden.
By morning, the engines growled back to life.
"Let it go," the leader said, lighting a cigarette with a grin too wide, too bright. "World's better off without 'em."
Then they were gone.
Days passed.
The forest, indifferent, moved on. Rain came. Then cold. Then sun. The child cried, soft and hoarse, his voice growing thinner each day. Hunger clawed at his belly. His tiny fists, once waving, now barely twitched.
But still… he survived.
Wrapped in the scarf his mother left behind, he lay nestled in silence, between twisted roots and fallen leaves. Animals passed, sniffed, and moved on. Nature, too, left him untouched.
And then—on the seventh day—voices.
Laughter. Footsteps.
A group of hikers emerged from the ridge, their backpacks bouncing, conversation light and careless.
"...and then I told her, no way I'm eating that weird mushroom again—"
"Wait."The one in front stopped, frowning. "Did you hear that?"
They all went quiet.
Then—another faint, croaking wail.
"Is that… a baby?"
They dropped their bags, scattering into the underbrush, following the sound.
Moments later, they found him—frail, filthy, but alive. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes barely open. But he was breathing.
"Oh my god…"
"He's freezing."
"Wrap him—here, take my jacket—call someone, now!"
The youngest of the group bent down and noticed something clutched in his little hand.
A silver bracelet.
Still warm.