The dawn’s first light crept stealthily across the mountains, caressing the mist with gentle touches of pale gold. In the small hut beside the brook, Naomi shifted quietly from her mat. The fire had gone out hours before, and the soft sound of Gabriel’s breathing filled the room — peaceful, even, childlike. He had slept all night without fever, and for that she was grateful.
She rose slowly, not wanting to disturb him. Her shawl was hanging on the door, soggy from rain the day before. She wrapped it over her shoulders, retrieved a wicker basket from the corner, and exited. The air was fresh and biting, filled with the scent of wet soil and pine. In the woods, a bird cried out, breaking the stillness.
Naomi left in the direction of the slope beyond the stream, where wild herbs grew between moss-stones. She knew where to pick them — for healing wounds, leaves; for pain-removing, roots. As she worked, she considered the stranger on her floor.
Gabriel.
There was a nobility to his face, even when he slept. He did not belong to her world — that much was sure. His palms were smooth, unaccustomed to hard work; his clothes, while torn, were of fine quality she had never found in the village. Who was he, really? Why did fate bring him to her doorstep like a wounded bird?
She shook the thoughts out. It did not matter who he was. For the moment, he needed assistance — and that was sufficient.
When Gabriel awoke, the sun had already streamed into the small hut, diffusing through the cracks in the wooden walls. For a few instants, he lay there, blinking at the strange ceiling. The air smelled of smoke, herbs, and rain.
He sat up slowly. His head throbbed dully, and all his muscles ached. He remembered flashes — a glittering hall, a glass, the swirl of headlights — and nothing more. His eyes scanned the little room: a single clay pot on the fire, a wooden chair, a pile of folded clothes on a stool.
And nothing of the woman who had rescued him.
“Naomi?” he whispered.
There was no reply.
His belly growled in protest, reminding him that he’d not had a bite to eat since… well, he couldn’t even say when. He lifted himself up and stumbled towards the corner where a pot was sitting. Lifting back the lid, he found only water — cold clear water, and without any hope. He took a couple of swallows to still the hunger, and then sighed, raking a hand through his snarled hair.
He required air.
When he came out, the morning sunshine almost blinded him. The village stretched below — a quilt of mud houses, smoke curling from cooking fires, and rolling hills like green waves.
He tried to take some unstable steps, trying to get his balance. It was when a rough voice pierced the stillness.
“Hey! Who are you?”
Gabriel turned. A woman stood a few meters away, holding a bundle of firewood. Her eyes narrowed, scanning his tall figure, his torn suit, and the confusion on his face.
“You! Stop right there!” she shouted. “Thief! Someone’s in Naomi’s house!”
Before Gabriel could respond, her voice rang through the air again, louder, angrier.
“Thief! There’s a thief at Naomi’s place!”
The quiet was shattered. Doors swung open, footsteps exploded. In mere seconds, half the village surrounded the small hut. Men were carrying sticks, women were speaking in hushed fear.
Gabriel threw up his hands in shock. “Please— I’m not—”
“Liar!” one man bellowed. “We’ve never met you. Where is Naomi?”
“I don’t know,” Gabriel replied, struggling to keep calm. “She—she helped me yesterday. I woke here. I’m not a thief.”
“Then where is she now?” another shouted. “Maybe you hurt her!”
The circle closed. A stick swooped at his shoulder; he shied away, and dropped into the mud. His heart was pounding — not out of fear of causing hurt, but out of the absurdity of the whole thing. Was this the way destiny repaid the generosity of his deliverer?
“Wait!”
The voice cut through the throng like the sun breaking through a cloud. Naomi appeared on the outskirts of the crowd, her basket pressed to her body, her face pale with terror. She ran forward, pushing the villagers aside.
“Stop this! He’s not a thief!” she cried. “He’s hurt — I brought him in from along the mountain road last night. He’s been out since then.”
The villagers froze, their faces unsure.
Naomi released the basket, herbs spilling into the mud. She crouched beside Gabriel, shielding him with her slight frame. “He’s a guest,” she declared, scanning the circle. “He would not hurt anyone.”
Tension slowly dissipated. Some grumbled apologies; others retreated awkwardly. The woman who’d initially screamed rubbed her head, complaining about being careful.
But not everyone left.
Near the back of the dispersing crowd stood a girl of about eighteen — Lydia, Naomi’s neighbor’s daughter. Her eyes lingered on Gabriel a moment too long, tracing the lines of his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders, the way his damp hair clung to his forehead. There was curiosity there… and something else.
Gabriel noticed the stare and shifted uncomfortably. His shirt was torn, his chest half-exposed where the fabric had been ripped by his fall. Since Lydia’s eyes did not fall, he felt a rush of heat rise to his neck.
He pushed the torn fabric shut and turned abruptly away, saying a soft, “Thank you,” to Naomi.
Naomi stood up, brushing mud off her hem. Her face softened when she saw him. “You shouldn’t have gone out,” she said gently. “Strangers frighten people around here.”
He nodded, feeling guilty. “I was just. starving.”
She gave him a guilty glance. “I’m sorry. I came to fetch herbs for your wounds. I’ll get something ready for you right away.“.
As they stepped back into the tiny hut, the remaining villagers walked off down the track, their grumblings fading. Lydia stood a little longer, her eyes still on the doorway as she wore a strange smile before walking away.
Inside, Gabriel sat next to the fire, his head bowed. Naomi knelt at the fire, her fingers moving quickly as she prepared a simple meal. The aroma of boiling porridge filled the hut.
He gazed at her gently, feeling a mix of relief and discomfort. That she had confronted the entire village to stand up for him — for this woman to whom he owed nothing — hit at something deep inside his breast.
“Naomi,” he breathed.
She glanced up. “Yes?”
He hesitated. “You didn’t have to defend me like that. I don’t even know who I am.”