The forest was unusually still that morning in Angkor. Jade sat low on a stone ledge, her body calm but alert, eyes never leaving her baby, Jinx. He was restless—testing boundaries the way young ones do—pulling at leaves, drifting too far, unaware of how quickly danger can appear in quiet places.
Jade responded without panic. She guided him back with firm, deliberate movements—neither rushed nor harsh. To an outsider, it might have looked severe. But standing there, watching closely, it felt like something else entirely: protection shaped by experience.
Jinx protested briefly, then stilled. He leaned into her chest, breathing slowing as Jade held him close. In that moment, the forest seemed to soften. This wasn’t anger. It was a lesson—one passed down through generations, meant to keep him alive.
As sunlight filtered through the trees, Jade relaxed her grip. Jinx stayed close now, glancing up at her face as if understanding had quietly settled in.
Some lessons aren’t gentle. But they are given with love.
