The morning sun filtered through the cave entrance, warming the damp stone walls. She stretched slowly, careful not to wake her daughter too abruptly. Outside, the forest was alive with rustling leaves and distant bird calls.
She crept quietly to the edge of the small clearing near the cave where she had set her primitive traps. Her heart skipped a beat when she saw movement—a rabbit-like creature caught in one of the snares. Relief and triumph washed over her.
"Good girl," she whispered to herself, trying not to make too much noise. The creature twitched, but was weak enough from the trap. She quickly and efficiently finished the hunt, her hands sore and scratched from the bamboo and thorny undergrowth, then carried the small animal back to the cave.
Inside, she placed the creature carefully over the newly built stone fire-ring. She fed the flames small sticks, adjusting them so the fire would roast evenly, and soon the warm smell of cooking meat filled the cave. Her daughter sat cross-legged nearby, eyes wide with curiosity and a little excitement.
"Almost ready," she said softly, pulling a few leaves over a small pile of wild vegetables they had gathered the day before. The vegetables would steam in the heat, a simple but nourishing complement to the rabbit meat.
While the fire worked, her daughter busied herself with the sleeping area. Together they had woven sticks to lift their makeshift beds off the cave floor, covering them with thick layers of grass and broad leaves. The result was crude, but it kept them dry and insulated from the cold, damp earth. It was small comfort, but comfort nonetheless.
Once the meat was browned and the vegetables softened, they both dug in, the warmth of the fire and the food spreading through their bodies. She watched her daughter chew slowly, savoring each bite, and felt a small swell of pride and relief.
For a moment, the world outside—the sea, the distant beach, the other survivors—didn't matter. Here, in this cave, with their fire, their food, and their makeshift beds, they had carved a tiny bubble of safety. It wasn't perfect, but it was theirs.
After the meal, she poked the fire gently, making sure it would continue to burn without smoking too much, then settled her daughter into the raised bed. She wrapped herself in a layer of grass and leaves, listening to the forest hum around them, and let herself close her eyes for the first time in days.
Tomorrow, she thought, they would explore further up the mountain and see what else the island had to offer. But for tonight, this cave, this fire, this little bit of food and comfort, was enough.
Morning light spilled into the cave, warming the stone walls and the thick layers of grass that covered their makeshift beds. She stretched and nudged her daughter awake.
"Time to eat something warm," she said, smiling softly.
Outside, the forest offered a small bounty. She led her daughter carefully through the damp underbrush, gathering wild leaves she recognized—tropical spinach, soft and dark-green, glistening from the morning dew. Nearby, a few taro-like tubers poked through the earth. She dug them up, brushing off the soil with her hands.
Back at the cave, she placed a few flat stones near the fire-ring, forming a stable platform for their stone "bowl." The rabbit meat from yesterday had been stored safely under leaves in cold deep.part of cave, and she chopped it roughly with her stone blade. The tubers went first into the stone bowl, cut into small chunks to cook evenly. She poured a little water from their bamboo bottle over them and carefully placed the bowl near the fire.
The heat slowly cooked the taro, softening it and releasing a faint, earthy aroma. She stirred the mixture with a stick, then added the chopped rabbit meat. Finally, the spinach leaves went on top, darkening as they touched the warm liquid. The smell of the soup was rich, earthy, and oddly comforting.
Her daughter watched with fascination, leaning close to feel the warmth radiating from the stones.
"Almost ready, love," she whispered, carefully poking at the mixture to make sure nothing stuck to the bottom.
When the soup was ready, she ladled it into smaller stones that served as bowls for them both. The rabbit, taro, and leafy spinach blended into a simple, thick stew. The flavors were mild but filling, the warmth spreading through their bodies like a small shield against the cold stone and damp cave.
They ate slowly, savoring each bite. Her daughter hummed softly, cheeks full, eyes shining with satisfaction. She herself felt a strange mix of pride, relief, and exhaustion.
For a moment, the forest outside seemed distant. No screaming from the beach, no desperate cries of other survivors—just the soft crackle of their fire, the earthy aroma of the soup, and the small, steady presence of each other.
"This will help us stay strong," she murmured, watching her daughter take another spoonful. "We'll need all our strength for what comes next."
When they finished, she cleaned the stone bowl carefully, saving it for later. The small, simple soup had nourished more than their bodies—it had reminded them that even here, in the wild, they could survive.
After finishing their soup, she and her daughter set out again, moving carefully through the dense undergrowth. They reinforced their small traps, placing them in areas where she had seen animal tracks earlier—near hollow logs, under low branches, and close to patches of wild grass. Each trap was simple, a stick and string arrangement, but it could be enough to catch a small rabbit or bird.
The sun climbed higher, and the air grew warm. Just as they paused to drink from their bamboo bottles, she spotted something bright among the leaves—a cluster of ripe mangoes hanging low from a small tree. Her daughter gasped, pointing excitedly.
"Look! Mangoes!"
They hurried carefully toward the tree, avoiding rustling the surrounding foliage. The fruits were plump, golden, and smelled sweet in the tropical air. She reached up and plucked several, passing some to her daughter who held them gently in her small hands.
"Be careful, love," she said, smiling. "These will keep us strong."
They gathered as many as they could carry, carefully placing them in large leaves they had collected earlier to form makeshift baskets. Each mango felt heavy and full of promise, a rare bounty after days of rough vegetables, wild tubers, and small hunted animals.
Back at the cave, they placed the mangoes together near the raised bed. The bright fruit added a splash of color to the otherwise earthy tones of their shelter. She cut one open for them, letting her daughter taste the sweet, juicy flesh. Her daughter's face lit up, a wide smile breaking across her dirt-streaked cheeks.
"This is amazing, Mom!" she exclaimed between bites.
She laughed softly, brushing a lock of hair from her daughter's forehead. "It's not much, but it's ours. We're doing well, aren't we?"
Her daughter nodded, finishing the mango in a few quick bites. She felt a surge of hope. With the fire, the stone bowl for cooking, their primitive beds, and now fresh fruit, they were surviving. And survival, she reminded herself, was everything.
Later, she checked the traps again. Nothing had been caught yet, but she didn't mind. Patience was part of this life—they had food, water, and shelter for now. Tomorrow they would try again, and maybe they would find more mangoes or other fruit as they explored further.
As night approached, they cuddled under the grass-covered beds, the cave warm from the day's sun and the fire they had maintained. The smell of mango lingered in the air, sweet and promising. For the first time in days, she felt a quiet contentment.