Echoes Across the Stream

Story:

The scent of pine and musty wood rose from the forest floor, whispering secrets through the rain. A splintered stump lay beside a trickling stream, its jagged edges like broken memories carved into time. Rain drizzled gently through the canopy above, each drop falling like a heartbeat against the earth. One fell from a low-hanging branch, slipping down the back of an elephant’s ear and sliding down his thick grey skin. He did not flinch. He simply stood, unmoving, eyes staring ahead—toward something only he seemed to see.

The old elephant was called Ruhan. A creature of immense size, yes, but also immense sorrow. Once a leader of his herd, once a father, once a warrior—now just a silent figure beside the stream.

Across the water, from the dense brush, eyes glowed yellow—sharp, intelligent, and still. A lion watched, tail twitching in slow rhythm, ears perked not in aggression but curiosity. This was Azrak, the youngest alpha of the southern pride. His body was strong, his mane untamed by wind and weather, but his gaze held a quiet restraint. He had been watching the elephant for hours. Perhaps longer.

They had never spoken. Not in the way humans might imagine. But their silences over the years had said enough.


ears earlier, before drought and fire reshaped the jungle, Ruhan had saved Azrak's life.

A flood had burst through the lower canyons after days of unseasonal rain. The river had swelled, wild and angry. Azrak—then just a cub—was trapped between the current and a collapsing hillside. His mother had already been swept away. The herd had passed nearby, and while the others had moved on, it was Ruhan who had stopped. His large body had lumbered down into the mud and water, trunk reaching, legs steady like ancient trees. He’d scooped the soaked lion cub onto his tusks, lifting him like a leaf, and carried him to dry ground.

The two hadn’t met again for years.

But the forest had not forgotten.
, Ruhan stood alone beside the same stream that once carried Azrak’s cries. He had come to this place every year since. Not to remember, but to listen. The water babbled like voices from the past—some dark, some light. It splashed gently on his face as he lowered his trunk, not to drink, but to feel.

Behind him, unseen, the jungle moved.

Birds flicked between branches—scritch, scritch, scritch—pecking for insects. Wind moved like a spirit across the ground, curling around roots, brushing past the lion’s mane, tickling the elephant’s wrinkled skin. It carried the smell of earth, of old rain and bone.

Then Ruhan turned his head—not in fear, but recognition.

Azrak stepped into the open, his paws making barely a sound. The lion did not roar. There