I still feel the ghost of the forest in my bones, even now. I keep returning in my mind to that day in the Angkor Wat forest — the day Rose did something that felt both impossible and inevitable. The morning had broken soft, with mist drifting through ancient trees and sunlight filtering in emerald shafts. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth, moss, and the lingering hum of cicadas hidden among vines. I watched from a distance, heart pounding, as Rose crept through the undergrowth.
She was barefoot, dressed in a simple linen shirt and worn pants, but there was a fierce light in her eyes. Just beyond her, I saw it too: a cage rusted with age, half-hidden beneath a tangle of roots and creeping fig vines. And inside — the Rainbow.
Not a literal rainbow, of course, but a creature so vivid I could scarcely believe what I saw: its feathers shimmered in colors that seemed to shift when the light touched them. It clung to the bars, wings folded awkwardly, as though it had lost hope. My breath caught as I realized: this was a bird of legend, or something that felt like legend — perhaps the Rainbow itself, trapped.
And then there was Brady. His voice echoed in my mind — soft, frightened. Through the trees I glimpsed his silhouette: he was tied, bound with rope, his body slumped. Button, the villain of our small world, had him – kidnapped, hidden somewhere nearby. I didn’t know how deep the trap went, or how Rose planned to free two such different captives.
Rose moved forward, trembling, but steady. She spoke in a quiet voice, calling out to the Rainbow, coaxing. I could hear her whispering stories: of why it must be free, not for spectacle, but for something higher — for dignity, for hope. The Rainbow cocked its head, as though listening, as though it understood. My heart surged.
When she opened the cage door, it squealed on its hinges, like a protest. The forest seemed to hold its breath. The Rainbow didn’t rush out. It paused, as if sizing her up. Rose didn’t flinch; instead, she reached in, her fingers trembling, and touched its wing. The colors shifted, blurred, then settled. It was as if she was stroking a living prism.
Then — something miraculous. The Rainbow took a small hop, and then another, and Rose helped guide it out. For a moment, wing met hand, and I swear there was a silent communication: gratitude, relief, trust. The forest echoed with a soft whoosh as the bird stretched its wings and lifted into the dappled sunlight above us.
But there was no time to celebrate — not yet. Brady was still bound, his spirit fragile. Rose turned, as the forest closed around her like a protective cradle. She hurried, her feet brushing ferns, moss, and ancient roots, to where he lay. I followed, hiding behind a thick banyan trunk, watching her cut the rope that tied him, angle by angle, careful but fast.
When his wrists fell free, Brady collapsed slightly, but Rose caught him. In that embrace under the canopy, with sunlight dancing through leaves, something shifted. His fear, his silence — it gave way to trembling tears, and she held him as though she could shield him from everything.
At that moment, I realized I’d never seen courage like this. Not the kind that roars, but the kind that speaks softly — that listens, that reaches, that understands. The forest seemed to breathe with her, as she carried Brady away, leaving the cage behind, and the Rainbow soaring high like a promise.
As they disappeared into the green twilight, I felt a weight lift off my chest — not just theirs, but mine too. I knew the story would stay with me, long after the forest went quiet, long after the cicadas stopped singing. Rose had done more than rescue. She had broken a spell.
