Nam’s grandfather climbed the mountain behind their village every Saturday morning. It had been his routine for thirty years. Nam often waited on the porch for him to return with wildflowers or interesting stones.
But this Saturday, he left at six in the morning — and by four in the afternoon he still wasn’t back.
Her mother called the neighbors who knew the trails. Nobody had seen him. Her father needed to stay home with Nam’s younger sibling who was sick. No one could go look.
Nam stood at the garden gate and looked up at the mountain. She could see the brown path that her grandfather had taken her along many times.
“I’ll go find him,” she told her mother.
Her mother hesitated. “Nam…”
“I know the path. He’s taken me plenty of times.”
Her mother pulled her into a tight hug, then handed her a flashlight and a water bottle. “Be careful. If you’re not back in two hours, I’m coming after you.”
Nam climbed steadily. She knew where to be careful, where the stones were loose, where the ground was slippery.
The first tricky spot was a narrow ledge she had to cross with her back to the rock face, gripping handholds as she shuffled sideways. The drop below was about two meters. Her grandfather always told her: look forward, not down.
She breathed deeply and moved one hold at a time. She made it across without slipping.
The second challenge was a small stream running faster than usual after last night’s rain. The stones were wet and smooth. She stood on the bank and studied them carefully, chose three that looked stable, and crossed in three hops. Her feet got wet but she didn’t fall.
The third was the worst — a thick fog rolling down from the peak. In moments she couldn’t see more than three meters ahead. She stopped, heart beating fast.
Then she remembered what her grandfather had always said: “If the fog comes in, stop and listen. The forest always has sounds. Listen well and you’ll know where you are.”
She closed her eyes and listened.
A waterfall. To the left. The small waterfall her grandfather always took her to see, which was close to the big rock shelter where he sometimes rested.
She walked toward the sound.
She found him sitting against a large boulder, left leg stretched straight, face relieved when he saw her.
“Nam! You came alone?”
“Yes, Grandfather. What happened?”
“Twisted my ankle.” He looked a little embarrassed. “I couldn’t walk down. I was waiting for someone to pass.”
She checked his ankle — swollen but probably not broken.
“Can you walk if someone supports you?”
“I think so.”
Nam was small, but she was strong. She stood at his side and let him drape his arm over her shoulders. Then they walked down together, step by step, slow and steady.
Through the fog. Over the stream. Along the narrow ledge.
When they reached the village, her mother ran out. She stared at the two of them together, eyes wide.
“Nam…” her mother said, voice shaking.
“I brought him back,” Nam said simply.
Her grandfather sat down in the chair on the porch and looked at his granddaughter with an expression she had never seen from him before.
“I’m so proud of you,” he said.
“I only did what you taught me,” she answered.
He laughed, even through the pain in his ankle.
