He sat for a while, staring at the coconut on the cabin floor, as if the object alone could solve the problem he had created. His stomach tightened in waves. It wasn't sharp pain. It was a constant, insistent warning, like someone poking him from the inside and saying hey, you forgot about me.
It's no use… he thought quietly.
He stood up slowly, pushing his body off the ground with his hands. His legs were a little shaky, but they worked. His head still hurt, but not enough to stop him from moving. He was already learning how to measure pain: what could be ignored and what couldn't.
He left the cabin again.
The sun was a little higher now, filtered through the treetops. Light spilled onto the ground in uneven patches, alternating brightness and shadow. He took a deep breath, trying to organize his thoughts.
Coconut.
Not just any coconut.
Cuco.
The word came right, the way it was supposed to be said.
He remembered now. It wasn't just coconut. It was cuco, the way people called it there. And cuco wasn't all the same.
On the beach, along the shore, near the open areas and the improvised port, the cucos were controlled. They always had been. He remembered that the same way one remembers a basic rule—like not touching what isn't yours or lowering your head when someone older walks by.
The beach cucos didn't belong to the people.
They belonged to the merchants.
Or rather: they belonged to the faction tied to the Island's Pirate Lord.
He remembered men with open shirts, worn boots, machetes at their waists. He remembered children being beaten for trying to grab a cuco that had fallen too close to the sand. He remembered shouting, shoving, someone saying that wasn't a place for beggars.
The poor knew.
Orphaned children knew even better.
If they wanted to eat, they had to go into the forest.
The forest had no declared owner. No fences. No constant guards. But it had other dangers.
He ran a hand along his own arm, as if he could already feel what he was about to face.
That's where it is… he thought. It's always been there.
He looked once more at the closed coconut on the cabin floor. It wasn't going to open itself. And he knew that if he wanted more, he had to go where it was allowed.
He turned his body toward the forest.
Before entering, he stopped.
He listened.
He had learned early that the forest warned you. It was never completely silent. There was always a sound out of place when something was wrong.
Birdsong. Insects. Wind in the leaves.
All normal.
Even so, he picked up a dry branch from the ground. It wasn't a real weapon. But it was something. Better than nothing.
He went in.
The forest closed in quickly. Just a few steps were enough for the world to change. The smell of salt vanished, replaced by damp earth, rotting leaves, sap. The ground grew uneven, full of roots, holes, hidden stones.
He walked slowly.
Not just out of caution, but because his small body tired quickly. Every step demanded attention. Don't trip. Don't slip. Don't make too much noise.
As he walked, he remembered.
He remembered other times.
Him smaller, even thinner, following other children. Never alone. Always in a group. The older ones went first. The younger learned by watching. No one taught directly. If you taught, you lost your advantage.
Learning there meant seeing and copying.
The cuco usually didn't need to be climbed for.
The good climbers kept the high ones. The small kids waited for the ones that fell. Or the ones no one wanted anymore.
He knew that. He didn't feel ashamed for not climbing. He had never climbed well.
His eyes swept the ground as he moved forward. He looked for rounded shapes, fibrous shells, lighter patches among dark leaves.
And he looked for signs.
Footprints.
He stopped suddenly.
He crouched.
There, in softer soil, deep marks. Not human. Not small. Wide, split hooves.
His heart sped up.
Boar… he thought.
On the island, boars weren't native animals. They didn't belong. They had been brought. He didn't know by whom. Or why. He only knew they were dangerous.
He had heard stories.
Children torn open. Broken legs. People disappearing.
The boar didn't always attack. But when it did, it didn't miss.
He stood up slowly, scanning his surroundings, trying to calculate.
The tracks went in the opposite direction.
Even so, his body stayed tense.
He went on.
More alert now. Every snapping branch made him stop. Every leaf shifting pulled his gaze.
And then he saw it.
A cuco on the ground.
Whole.
Big.
For a second, he thought it was an illusion. He approached slowly. Nudged it with his foot.
Real.
He crouched and picked it up.
Heavy. Good.
He felt a small, contained victory that never quite became a smile. He held it close to his body, like before, and kept moving.
He didn't stop there.
He had learned never to take just one. Whenever possible, you took more. Tomorrow might not have any. Tomorrow might hurt more.
He found another, smaller one. Then another, its shell already stained. That one was probably old, but still usable.
As he gathered them, he saw other children in the distance. Silhouettes among the trees. Some whispered to each other. Others just worked.
No one fought there.
In the forest, everyone knew noise attracted worse things.
Time passed without him really noticing. His body complained. The hunger stayed, but now it carried promise.
When he decided it was enough—two whole cucos and one questionable one—he turned back.
The way back always felt different. It always did. The forest had no clear paths. Everything blurred together.
He stopped a few times, trying to recognize crooked trees, split trunks, large roots.
He found them.
He emerged from the forest with contained relief.
The cabin was just as he had left it. Nothing disturbed. No sign of people.
He went in quickly, pulling the improvised door shut behind him.
He set the cucos on the ground.
He sat.
He breathed.
That was when the memory came fully.
Not fragmented.
Whole enough to hurt.
He remembered the boy.
Older. Taller. Always smirking. Always surrounded.
Before the blow, there had been the mockery. The words. The knife being yanked from his hand like it meant nothing.
That's not for you… he remembered hearing.
The pain in his head. The ground. The laughter.
He clenched his fists.
Son of a bitch… he thought, not fully knowing the weight of the word, but feeling that it fit.
He looked at the cucos.
Now he had food.
But he still didn't have a knife.
And that, he knew, wasn't just a small problem.
It was the beginning of another one.