The first rays of morning sunlight filtered gently through the emerald canopy, scattering patches of gold across the little village Jude and his wives had built over the years.
It was no longer a camp.
It was home.
Dozens of sturdy wooden cabins stood among the trees, connected by winding stone paths they had laid one piece at a time. Rope bridges stretched between several enormous tree houses high above the forest floor, swaying softly in the morning breeze. Some had become lookout posts, while others served as quiet places to read, rest, or simply watch the island awaken.
Near the center of the village, the old fire pit still burned.
It had been rebuilt countless times over the years, surrounded by smooth logs polished from endless evenings spent talking, laughing, crying, and sharing meals together. A large iron pot hung above the flames, gently steaming with breakfast.
The smell drifted through the village.
Fresh herbs.
Sweet fruits.
Roasted roots.
