Mau had never considered the forest a teacher.
It was dangerous. Unforgiving. Sharp. But it was patient.
And Tay Eming—well, he was both.
"Up," he said one morning, his tone gentle but firm. Mau had already learned that gentle but firm meant she had exactly two options: do it, or get a lecture she didn't want.
She climbed to her feet, wincing as her limbs protested. Each muscle screamed in protest, but Tay Eming's quiet eyes reminded her: complaining wasn't in the syllabus.
"You'll hurt yourself if you're too soft," he said, tossing a small wooden staff toward her. "Catch it."
Mau blinked. The staff spun through the air as if dancing, and without thinking, her hands moved with instinctive precision. She caught it.
"Not bad," he said, raising a brow. "Not bad at all. Now, defend."
From behind a tree, Tay Eming lunged with another staff. Mau twisted, blocked, countered—her movements fluid, almost like she had been trained in a life she could not remember.
"Wait," she said, breath uneven. "How do I—?"
"Stop thinking. Move." His voice was teasing now, just a whisper, but sharp enough to cut through hesitation.
Mau froze for a split second—then everything inside her remembered: weight, balance, timing, precision. A flick, a pivot, and the staff met his at the perfect angle. Tay Eming grinned—a rare, wide grin.
"You're lethal," he said, shaking his head. "And that's… unfair."
Mau couldn't help a small laugh. "I'm just awkward enough to survive."
"Awkward?" he said, mock horror on his face. "You call that awkward? I'd like to see the awkward version of everyone else who lives in this forest."
By mid-morning, Mau had nearly collapsed. But Tay Eming didn't allow mercy.
"Sit," he ordered, handing her a bundle of herbs. "We sort these next. Precision and patience. Like life."
Mau's fingers fumbled at first, but her hands, guided by muscle memory she didn't understand, arranged leaves into perfect piles. There was rhythm to it—the way her fingers knew which leaves to keep, which to discard. Tay Eming watched, quietly impressed.
"You're thinking too much," he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Stop analyzing and feel the flow. Or are city girls really that slow?"
Mau raised an eyebrow, not looking at him. "You don't get to call me a city girl anymore."
He chuckled. "Ah. Memory loss doesn't erase pride, thankfully."
Something about that made her pause. She glanced at him, feeling a flicker of… recognition? No, not exactly. Something deeper, almost like a puzzle piece in the wrong place.
By evening, the forest settled into shadows and whispers. Mau sat cross-legged outside, practicing footwork along a narrow path Tay Eming had cleared.
"You move like water," he said softly. "Graceful, unrelenting."
"Water is predictable," she said. "And I'm not predictable."
Tay Eming studied her quietly. "Not yet. But you will be. And that's what matters."
A crow cawed. Mau jumped, then smirked. "Predictable now?"
He shook his head, laughing softly. "Annoying is fine. It keeps me alert."
It was the first time Mau felt… light since waking in the Sierra. A strange, fleeting sense that even amidst danger, she could find footing.