The Girl and the Path
In a distant village, a girl with a heart full of dreams is torn from her path. Her tears become a call that the forest cannot ignore.
Once upon a time, in a faraway village, there lived a little girl named Amara. Her village was small, made of mud huts and straw roofs, surrounded by endless fields of yellow and green that waved in the wind like a boundless sea. Every morning Amara woke up early, to the song of roosters and the smell of bread her mother baked on the fire. Then she would take her notebook and, with a light step, walk the path that led to the school in the nearby village.
Amara loved to learn. Her eyes sparkled when the teacher told stories or taught new words. She dreamed of growing up and one day writing her own story, a story full of freedom, adventure, and courage. She was a simple girl, but in her heart burned a flame brighter than a thousand stars.
One afternoon, as the sun was setting, Amara walked home from school. The sky turned red and orange, and the shadows of the nearby forest stretched out like gentle fingers caressing the earth. Amara whistled a tune she had learned at school, happy to soon see her mother and father.
But that evening, something terrible happened. Three men emerged from the path, big and dark as rocks. Their eyes gleamed with malice and their steps were heavy like war drums. Before Amara could run or scream, they grabbed her by the arms and lifted her off the ground. The girl screamed, kicked, cried, but no one came to her aid: the fields were empty, the village far away.
The men dragged her with them, deeper and deeper into the forest, where the sun could not filter through the branches and the air grew cold. The girl was locked in a dark hut, with barred windows and a heavy wooden door. Inside there was only an old straw mattress and a smell of dampness.
Amara collapsed to the ground, trembling. Tears ran down her face and her heart beat so hard it seemed ready to escape her chest. For a moment, she thought it was the end of her dreams, that no one would ever find her again.
But inside, Amara did not stop fighting. Through her tears, she began to call out: — Help! Help! — she cried with all the voice she had. Her voice left the hut, slipped through the leaves, bounced off the trees, and ran far away.
The forest listened. The birds stopped singing, the monkeys paused on the branches, even the wind seemed to hold its breath. And somewhere, in a hidden part of the thicket, a young lion awoke.
His mane was still short, his eyes amber, and his heart, though young, was beginning to feel the weight of the world. He rose slowly, ears alert, and listened to the cry carried by the wind. It was the cry of a child.
The young lion, curious and uneasy, took a step forward, then another. He did not know why, but he felt that cry was a call… a call he could not ignore.
