Uga didn't leave the forest.
At first, he was just a lost boy—wandering, afraid, driven by hunger and instinct. But somehow, he survived. He learned which fruits made his stomach hurt, which rivers were safe to drink from, which caves were too quiet to be empty. He was scratched, bitten, starved… but he survived.
Eventually, he found his way back to the tree where his sister had left him.
And he waited.
For five months, he slept beneath that tree every single night, curled up in the hollow, still listening for her footsteps. Still hoping.
After a while, it became every other day.
Then once a week.
Once a month.
By the fourth year, he stopped going entirely.
Not because he didn't care.
But because… he forgot.
Forgot why the tree mattered. Forgot why that ache in his chest twisted each time he passed it. He was still a child, and memories—especially painful ones—blur in solitude.
He lived deeper in the forest then. Lived by instinct. Lived by strength.
