The sun had just begun to spill its first light across the forest floor when I met her—Lucie.
The morning air in Angkor Wat carried that sweet, earthy scent of dew-soaked leaves, and the stones, older than memory, glowed warm beneath a golden haze. The jungle was waking. Birds called out in playful chatter. Somewhere far off, a monkey troop stirred.
And then, through a curtain of dangling vines, she appeared.
Lucie was so small she could fit entirely in the cradle of her mother’s arms. Her fur was soft and pale brown, with just a hint of gold where the light touched it. But it wasn’t her size that made my heart ache—it was her eyes. They were impossibly gentle, round and deep like the forest pools that hide in secret places here. Eyes that held no fear, only wonder, as if every leaf and shadow was a gift she had been born to cherish.
Her mother paused beneath the twisting roots of an ancient strangler fig, holding her close. Lucie’s tiny hands—so delicate they seemed made of whispers—played with a strand of her mother’s fur. I stayed perfectly still, hidden among the stones, not daring to move. This wasn’t just a moment to watch; it was a moment to honor.
Lucie caught sight of a bright green leaf drifting lazily to the ground. Her head tilted. The corners of her tiny mouth curved ever so slightly, as if she’d just learned the secret joy of noticing something beautiful. She reached for it—but her fingers missed, and the leaf spun away. Her mother bent down, plucked the leaf, and placed it gently in Lucie’s grasp. That’s when I saw it: her first real smile.
It wasn’t the kind of smile that bursts wide and loud—it was quiet, almost shy. But it had weight. It was the kind of smile that could melt the frost on the coldest human heart. And in that quiet space between the rustle of leaves and the distant hum of the waking forest, I realized that Lucie’s innocence was the purest kind of beauty.
The forest around Angkor Wat is alive with history. Every root is wrapped around centuries of stories, every stone has seen empires rise and fall. And yet, here in this timeless place, a brand-new story was beginning—Lucie’s story. She didn’t know she was surrounded by ancient wonders. She didn’t know that people from across the world would give anything to see what I was seeing. All she knew was her mother’s warmth, the scent of the morning, and the curiosity blooming in her heart.
Her mother began to move again, climbing a low branch, her strong tail swaying like a ribbon in the wind. Lucie clung tightly, still holding her prized leaf. The branch dipped under their weight, and she let out a tiny, surprised squeak—a sound so soft it was almost a question. Her mother paused, turned, and pressed her nose against Lucie’s head. Whatever reassurance passed between them was invisible to me, but Lucie’s little body relaxed instantly.
I thought about how much of life is like that—how we all cling to something when the branch sways unexpectedly, and how often it’s the presence of someone we trust that steadies us again. Lucie didn’t know it yet, but she was already teaching me something I’d forgotten: the world is softer when we look at it through gentle eyes.
As the sun climbed higher, Lucie’s fur shimmered with warmth. She nestled closer into her mother’s chest, her breathing slow and even. The forest sounds grew louder now—troop members calling to each other, branches cracking in the distance—but to her, the world had narrowed to safety and comfort. I stayed a while longer, watching until they disappeared into the green, carrying their small piece of morning with them.
I left the forest with a strange feeling—light, but full. The kind of fullness that doesn’t come from what you take with you, but from what you leave behind. Lucie would never know me, but she’d given me a gift: a reminder that innocence isn’t fragile when it’s held in love; it’s the strongest thing there is.
Some people travel to Angkor Wat to marvel at its temples. Some come to feel the weight of history. That morning, I found my reason. And it had big, gentle eyes and a leaf clutched in its tiny hand.
