I still remember the first time I saw Rina — barely ten days old, her tiny fists curled, her eyes wide and curious as the morning sun filtered through the ancient trees of the Angkor‑Wat forest. There was something wild in her spirit already, a restless pulse, like the forest itself: full of life, bursting with energy, wanting to stretch, to move, to explore.
I had carried her gently across the moss‑covered roots of a centuries‑old tree, the filtered light dancing on her skin. But as soon as I placed her down, she wriggled. Her legs kicked, her arms flailed — she wobbled, but her cries were of delight. She seemed to want to reach for the leaves, the breeze, the enormous, silent stones all around.
And then came Rose. Ever gentle, ever calm. Rose knelt, scooped Rina up into her arms, and pressed her close. Not a harsh grip — soft, protective, but firm enough to steady her. “Not yet, little one,” Rose whispered. There was affection in her voice, love, but also quiet strength.
As I watched, Rina’s excitement turned into frustration. Her tiny legs pushed against Rose’s chest. She tried to arch away, to break free, to run — run into the forest, into the unknown. Her wails fluttered between laughter and upset. And Rose only held her tighter.
I saw the sunlight shift, the leaves rustle overhead. The air smelled of damp earth and ancient stone — so different from the concrete world most people know. There was magic in the silence of the forest, but also responsibility. Rose embodied that responsibility. She understood that Rina’s energy was like a flame: beautiful, bright, but dangerous if left uncontrolled.
Over the next hour, I followed them as they made their way along a narrow forest path. Every time Rina attempted to leap or dart ahead, Rose gently guided her hand, speaking soft words, rocking her, singing a lullaby that Rose had learned from a grandmother long ago. The song echoed faintly among the temple ruins, a melody against the weight of history and stone.
By the time the sun dipped low, turning everything golden, Rina was calm. Her eyelids drooped, her tiny chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths. Rose carried her close, humming softly, the rumble of the forest around us.
I realized then — as dusk settled, and the forest exhaled its nocturnal hush — that Rina needed Rose not to stifle her, but to guide her. To show her that this vast world, this sprawling forest, needed respect as much as wonder.
And though I was just a witness, I felt as if I’d learned something important: the balance between freedom and love, between wild energy and gentle guidance.
