Mara knelt in the forest dirt, her fingers working at the base of a willow tree.

  Her hands knew what to do. They curved naturally around the base of plants, found the right angle to pry without breaking, knew how deep to dig for what she needed. But she couldn't remember learning any of it. The knowledge lived in her body—in the way her hands moved, in the instinct that told her which plants held medicine and which held poison. The memories that should have come with that knowledge were gone.

  There should be tools. A basket, maybe. Something more efficient than clawing at the ground with her bare hands. But she couldn't remember ever using tools for this work. Couldn't remember who had taught her that willow bark made tea for pain, or why she was here alone.

  The forest around her was quiet. No birds sang. No insects hummed. Even the wind had stilled.

  She found a thick root and pulled it free with a satisfying snap. Not much to show for the work, but it would have to be enough. She reached deeper, and her fingers closed around something smooth and cold.

  A stone. Round and dark, worn smooth by water or time. For a moment, looking at it, she felt something stir. Not recognition, exactly. More like the shadow of recognition. As if this stone should mean something to her, should connect to some memory of hands that weren't hers placing it here.

  Then the feeling passed, and it was just a stone again.

  The first drops of rain hit her shoulders. She looked up through the canopy and saw gray clouds gathering. She should seek shelter. Should gather what she had and find a place to wait out the storm. But her hands were already deep in the earth again, following another root system, and the rain felt distant.

  The shower came all at once. One moment there were scattered drops, and the next the sky opened up. The water soaked through her thin robe within seconds. It ran down her face and dripped from her chin, and still she kept digging.

  The earth turned to mud under her hands. Cold, sticky mud that clung to her fingers and made every movement harder. Her knees sank deeper into the softening ground. But the roots were still there, still waiting.

  "Please," she whispered to the trees above her. "Just a little shelter. Just enough to finish."

  Her voice sounded strange in the rain-muffled forest. Thin and cracked, like it hadn't been used in days. She waited for an answer—a shift in the wind, a parting of the clouds, some sign that something in this place still cared whether she lived or died.

  Nothing changed.

  She accepted it. The forest owed her nothing. She had asked, and been ignored, and that was simply how things were now. There was no point in anger when you had nothing left to be angry with.

  Her hands were numb now, more tools than body parts. She had to watch them work because she could barely feel them. The mud was up to her wrists when she finally found what she was looking for—a thick, woody root that would make strong medicine for wounds. She wrapped her stiff fingers around it and pulled.

  It came free all at once, sending her backward into the mud with a wet slap. For a moment she lay there, staring up at the gray sky through the rain, feeling the cold water pool in her ears. Her body was shivering violently, but the sensation felt distant, as if it belonged to someone else.

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  She tried to sit up. Her legs wouldn't quite obey her. The cold had settled deep into her muscles, making everything slow and uncertain. She got to her knees, swaying, and then had to pause as black spots danced at the edges of her vision.

  This was dangerous. She was too cold, too wet, too far from warmth. Her body was shutting down, preparing to protect the vital parts by abandoning the rest. She should be afraid.

  But fear required caring about what happened next, and she found she didn't have the energy for that kind of concern. If she collapsed here in the mud, if the cold took her while she knelt in the rain gathering scraps, it would simply be another thing that happened.

  She tried to stand and fell forward, catching herself on her hands in the churned-up earth. The roots she'd gathered scattered around her, half-buried in mud. She began collecting them again, moving with the careful precision of someone who had learned that dropping things meant going without.

  "Such dedication."

  The voice came from somewhere behind her, smooth as worn stone. Mara didn't turn around. She knew better than to look directly at forest creatures. Especially when she was this vulnerable.

  "Even when your body fails," the voice continued, closer now, "you persist. How admirable. How tragic."

  The words washed over her like the rain—just another sound in the forest, no more meaningful than wind in the trees. She had learned not to listen too carefully to things that spoke in the deep woods.

  "I could shelter you," the creature offered, and there was something almost gentle in its tone. "Trade you warmth for something small. Something you wouldn't even miss, given how little you seem to have left."

  Mara's hands stilled for just a moment. A trade. She had so little left to bargain with. But even scraps were still hers.

  "A childhood memory," the creature suggested. "The taste of your mother's bread. The sound of laughter that isn't your own. Something useless, really. Just taking up space."

  The pile of roots was growing, despite the rain trying to wash them away. Mara focused on that—on the simple task of collection. The creature's voice became just another part of the forest noise, no more important than the drumming of rain on leaves.

  "Nothing?" The creature sounded genuinely puzzled now. "You would rather freeze to death in the mud than give up even the smallest memory?"

  Mara wondered if that was true. If she was clinging to scraps out of some stubborn instinct, or if she simply had nothing left worth trading. Either way, the work mattered now. With the roots in her trembling hands, the simple task of gathering, the knowledge that lived in her body even when her mind held almost nothing.

  Time passed. Her thoughts came slowly, like moving through honey. Her hands moved automatically now, following patterns worn so deep into memory that even hypothermia couldn't erase them. Each root she pulled from the earth was one less needed, one step closer to having enough. The wound should heal with these. It had to.

  She was still kneeling in the mud when the rain finally stopped. The sudden silence felt like a held breath. Water dripped steadily from the trees above, but the downpour was over.

  Mara tried to stand and found she couldn't. Her legs were too cold, too stiff. She remained on her knees in the churned earth, looking at the small pile of roots she'd managed to collect. Barely enough for the medicine. But enough, if she was careful with the preparation.

  But it was something. In a world where most things slipped away or failed to work or simply disappeared, she had found something real and useful. Something her hands had pulled from the earth through will and stubbornness alone.

  She began the slow process of gathering the roots into her robe, using the fabric as a makeshift basket. Her fingers were too numb to work properly, and several times she dropped what she'd collected and had to start over. But eventually she had them bundled together against her chest, delicate cargo that needed gentle preparation.

  Now she just had to get home. Back to the small roost where a patient was waiting, where bright eyes awaited her return.

  She looked up at the path through the trees. So far away. Her body felt impossibly heavy, unresponsive. But her legs still worked, after a fashion. She could crawl if she had to. She had crawled before.

  One movement at a time, she made her way back through the forest, carrying her handful of roots like they were worth something. Like she was worth something. Like small, trusting eyes were waiting for her gentle touch to make things right again.

  The forest watched her go with the indifference of something that had seen this before many times.