The stones of Angkor had already begun to warm when Vikki settled into a shaded patch beneath a fig tree. The forest hummed softly around her, unaware that something quietly extraordinary had just occurred.
Her newborn son lay against her chest, so small he seemed to disappear into her fur. His movements were minimal — a twitch of fingers, a slow stretch — as if he was still deciding how much of the world to accept at once.
Vikki watched him closely. Every shift he made drew a response from her, a slight repositioning, a gentle pull closer. Her attention never drifted. In the wild, awareness is survival, but this was something more intimate than vigilance. It was connection.
The baby rooted instinctively, finding comfort in familiarity rather than urgency. Vikki allowed him the time he needed. There was no rush here. The forest had waited centuries; it could wait a little longer.
Occasionally, she glanced upward, checking the branches above, then back down at him. Each glance felt like a promise — that she would keep him safe, that she would teach him this place, that he belonged.
Nearby, life continued as usual. Birds passed overhead. Insects traced invisible paths through the air. Yet within Vikki’s arms, a separate world existed, defined by warmth, rhythm, and trust.
As the hours passed, the baby grew more alert. His eyes fluttered open briefly, unfocused, catching light before closing again. Vikki leaned forward, her face close enough that he could feel her breath. It was a quiet exchange, unseen by most, but complete in itself.
When she finally moved, it was with intention. Rising carefully, she adjusted her grip, ensuring his hold remained secure. Each step forward marked the beginning of his life beyond stillness — a life shaped by trees, stone, and the steady presence of his mother.
By afternoon, they were gone, absorbed into the forest’s depth. But the impression they left lingered — a reminder that even in ancient places, new stories continue to begin.
