Moons passed. Many.

The stream sang every morning. Light from the crack woke them, warm and golden.

The soil at the top of the mountain wasn’t much… but it was good.

Goom and the little ones turned it gently. They planted seeds. They waited.

And they grew.

The plants. The sprouts. And they, too.

The smallest learned to use his fingers to plant roots. The other two learned to water, to protect with stones, to pick fruit without crushing it.

And when the first fruits grew… they laughed. They jumped. They hugged.

They ate with dirty hands and full cheeks.

And for a moment… the tribe lived on.

When the baskets filled for the second time, Goom knew the moment had come.

“I’m going out,” he said one morning. “To the tribe. To find someone to talk to. To trade with.”

The little ones didn’t cry. Not anymore.

They knew how to wait. They knew how to trust.

The way back was short. But his steps were heavy.

When he arrived… Ashes. Dry fire. Silence.

The village no longer had shape. Only memory.

He walked through the remains. Picked up stones. Ropes. Fragments.

And he also saw bodies. Few. Burned. Twisted.

He buried them. One by one. Dug with his hands. Covered with branches. And left a flower on each.

He didn’t cry. He couldn’t.

But his heart… was heavy.

“Thank you,” he said at last. “We’re still alive.”

He thought of returning… but something stopped him.

Trade.

He had brought fruit. Dried seeds. Sweet bark.

Maybe… if someone was nearby, they’d want to trade.

Then he felt them.

Voices. Footsteps. Presence.

He hid. Saw them.

Goblins. Not like him. Smaller. Thinner. Darker.

Their clothes were hard leather and feathers. They carried knives. Moved like shadows. With eyes that never blinked.

One stopped. Sniffed the air.

“Another?” “He’s close.”

Goom stepped out slowly. Didn’t raise his hands, but didn’t hide.

“I didn’t come to fight,” he said. “I have food. Sweet things.”

The goblins surrounded him, knives in hand.

Goom opened his bag. Took out small fruits, shiny-skinned. Seeds. A soft root.

The one who seemed like the leader stepped forward. Took a fruit. Bit into it.

“Sweet,” he said. Without emotion.

Another spat out a seed. “Eats soft things. Probably doesn’t fight.”

“I didn’t come to fight,” said Goom. “I came to live.”

Silence.

The leader looked him over.

“You’re not cave-born. Nor field-born. You don’t smell like the hunt. What tribe are you from?”

“None,” said Goom. “Mine.”

A younger goblin rummaged through Goom’s bag. “He has more. Good roots. Could preserve meat.”

The leader nodded.

“We’ll leave something.”

One of them went to a nearby bush and returned with a small hardened leather pouch. Inside were ropes, a pair of flint stones, and a used but sharp dagger.

He dropped it at Goom’s feet without ceremony.

“Trade,” he said. “Take it. Say no more.”

Goom crouched. Took the pouch. Checked the contents.

He didn’t smile. But he nodded.

It was fair.

And then, as they were about to leave, Goom took a step.

“Teach me,” he said. “How you move. How you defend. How not to die.”

The knives didn’t lower. But they didn’t come closer.

“Why?”

“Because I saw creatures bigger than you. And I was afraid. The same fear I feel now.

And that’s why… I want to understand. To protect.”

The leader tilted his head.

“Fear that wants to learn… is strong fear.”

He put away his knife.

“Follow us. If you don’t bother, watch. And if you see with your eyes… maybe you’ll learn something before you die.”

Goom nodded.

Not as one of them. But as someone beginning to become something more.