Nudging Gratitude

“Some lessons come with textbooks. Others come with elbows to the ribs and a fire that refuses to go out.”

Pushing my way inside the medical tent—a space that had, without formal agreement, silently become mine—I was immediately met by the enveloping stillness. The canvas whispered in the breeze, and the faintest amber glow bled through the fabric walls, casting soft, formless shadows that pulsed with each flicker of the campfire outside.

Kneeling down, I felt the grit of the earth beneath the thin flooring—dust and pebbles pressing through like silent reminders that even in here, there was no real separation from the wildness of Clivilius. The ground beneath us was indifferent, unmoved by our small efforts to tame it.

I closed my eyes and inhaled slowly, deeply, drawing in the dry air, my breath catching on the edge of weariness. “I'm grateful,” I said aloud. The words were soft, yet they carried weight. They were meant for no one but myself—and perhaps the universe, if it was still listening. Gratitude felt like a tether, something to anchor me amid the surreality of everything we’d witnessed: Joel’s impossible return, the haunted questions, the deepening cracks in our shared understanding of the world.

But even as the word left my lips, I felt it twist in my chest. A thought surfaced, quiet but insistent. No, this isn’t right.

Gratitude shouldn’t be private tonight. Not here. Not now.

Paul and Kain needed this moment too. We all did.

Driven by a sudden resolve, I stood, my movements careful but determined, and slipped back out into the open air. The firelight drew long shadows across the camp, the logs now barely embers, but still glowing—still alive.

As I stepped back into the circle of light, Kain caught sight of me too late. His startled yelp preceded his clumsy fall as he toppled backwards off his log, arms flailing briefly before gravity took hold.

"Glenda!" he exclaimed, the words tumbling out as his back hit the dirt with a thud. "What the hell!"

"Sorry," I mouthed quickly, barely more than a whisper. I reached out my hand to help him up, the motion fluid, instinctual. My fingers clasped his, grounding both of us.

"Glenda," came another voice—quiet, close.

I turned, heart skipping, only to find Paul standing just behind me, a ghost conjured from the shadows. His silent approach had startled me more than I wanted to admit, and I jerked slightly, the shock rippling through my shoulders.

Kain’s grip on my hand held firm, steadying me before I could stumble.

Paul chuckled softly, a muted sound that hung gently between us like smoke. Then, with exaggerated theatricality, he dropped his sleeping bag onto the dust at his feet.

"Sorry," he said, the grin in his voice unmistakable.

"No, you're not," I shot back, unable to suppress a smile of my own. The moment, ridiculous and fleeting, held a warmth that broke the tension. Even here, in this barren, strange place, there was room for laughter—however brief.

"You don't like the tent?" Kain asked, brushing the dust from his trousers as he righted himself, his glance flicking toward the medical tent.

"Actually," I began, feeling the atmosphere shift as the amusement gave way to something more deliberate, more purposeful, "there's something I think we should do as a group first."

They both looked at me—Paul curious, Kain sceptical. I saw the question in their eyes before Kain voiced it aloud.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Gratitude," I replied simply.

"Gratitude?" Kain echoed with a scoff, the word escaping him like it left a bad taste. It was clear he thought the idea abstract, or maybe indulgent.

"Hear me out," I said, lifting my hand in a small but decisive gesture. The motion was firm, commanding attention, a silent call for space to speak.

Kain didn’t interrupt. He watched me, brows still raised, but silent now. Curious.

Paul remained still, his eyes steady, reflecting the firelight and something quieter, more thoughtful.

I inhaled again—this time to speak.

"It's something my father taught me. I've done it every day since..." The words came softly, catching in my throat as the mention of him sent a tremor of emotion surging through me. I hadn’t expected the memory to rise so abruptly, to cut so deep. My chest tightened, the air suddenly harder to draw. I swallowed, forcing the lump back down, fighting the sting behind my eyes.

"It's become a nightly tradition for me."

Saying it aloud grounded me, the familiar ritual tethering me to something solid amidst the uncertainty of Clivilius. This tradition had outlived cities, storms, and even relationships. Now it had followed me here—into the dust, the silence, and the firelight.

I knelt slowly near the glowing embers, dust soft beneath my knees, the warmth from the fire brushing my face with a familiar touch. It felt right. It felt necessary.

"Come join me," I said, gently inviting them to close the distance—not just physically, but emotionally. This wasn’t about sentimentality; it was about resilience, about claiming a shred of peace in a place that offered so little of it.

The fire crackled in reply, a quiet punctuation between us.

Paul moved first. No words, just a shift in posture as he stepped forward and dropped to his knees beside me. The movement was understated, but it held a kind of respect—a silent gesture that meant more than any spoken agreement.

Kain remained where he was, his arms loosely crossed, expression unreadable in the flickering light. Doubt danced across his features, faint but evident. He was holding something back, wary, maybe a little uncomfortable.

"It's okay," I said, catching his eye, my voice calm but inviting. "We're not praying or anything."

It was important to say. To strip away any perceived expectation. This wasn’t about faith, not in the traditional sense. It was about presence. About acknowledging we were still here.

Kain’s mouth tightened, the muscles in his jaw working through whatever resistance lingered. Then, with a sigh that was more like a surrender, he lowered himself into the dust on my other side.

We knelt there, the three of us, knees brushing earth, shoulders facing the flames. It felt different now—still, but expectant. As if the campfire itself had paused to listen.

"I'll go first," I said, breaking the hush before it could settle too thick around us.

"I'm grateful for life."

The words came easily, not rehearsed, but known. Carried in my bones. I didn’t need to elaborate. We all understood what that meant now—how fragile life had become, how uncertain, how fiercely we clung to it even when it defied understanding.

Silence followed. Not awkward, just uncertain. A beat stretched... and then another.

I could feel it—Paul hesitating, Kain fidgeting slightly. They weren’t sure if they were meant to speak, or if it was enough just to sit here in quiet acknowledgement.

My elbow nudged Paul’s ribs, a small jab of encouragement that drew a huff of breath from him. Still nothing.

The silence thickened again, curling around us. I shifted my weight, casting a glance at the fire. Are they not going to participate? the thought rose, unbidden. Then why stay?

I nudged Paul a second time—firmer now.

"I'm grateful for the river," Paul blurted, his words tumbling out quickly, as if they’d been caught in his throat and suddenly dislodged.

The river. Of course.

I closed my eyes, allowing the thought to settle over me like a balm. That river had offered more than hydration—it had shown us something inexplicable, something potentially life-saving. In this strange land, that was everything.

A quiet settled in again, gentler this time. Not empty, but full—of meaning, of effort, of something shared.

Yes, I thought. That was a good one.

Feeling the silence stretch on, dense and unmoving, my resolve hardened. I turned slightly and nudged Kain again—a third time—this time with deliberate insistence. No more gentle prompting. If he is going to stay with us, I told myself firmly, he is going to participate. Not just stand by the edges, not just hover near the warmth of our fire without stepping into its light. He needed to feel what it meant to be part of this.

"I'm grateful for Uncle Jamie," Kain finally blurted out, the words bursting forth like steam from a sealed pot, tinged with a reluctant vulnerability that made my chest tighten.

There was no mistaking the sincerity beneath his begrudging tone, no matter how much he tried to hide it. But before the weight of his confession could settle between us, Paul’s hand flew to his mouth—too late.

A soft snort escaped. Involuntary. But sharp enough to pierce the moment like a pin to a balloon.

Kain’s posture stiffened. I saw his shoulders tense before he even moved. Then he was on his feet, movements abrupt and rigid, retreating like a man fleeing an open wound.

"Kain, I'm sorry," Paul called after him, the words tangled in guilt and surprise. His apology hung in the air, unanswered, as Kain strode past the edge of the firelight and vanished into the waiting dark.

I heard the soft creak of Paul’s knees as he moved to rise, a reflexive act born from concern and regret. But before he could fully stand, I reached out and gently caught his arm.

"Don't," I mouthed, barely audible, but heavy with meaning.

He paused, still half-risen, and turned to look at me. The glow of the flames danced across his face, highlighting the crease in his brow, the silent question in his eyes. Why not?

I held his gaze, steady and sure.

"He'll be back. There's nowhere else to go," I said aloud, my voice soft, but laced with quiet conviction. The words weren't just for Paul—they were for me, too. For all of us. Despite the vastness that surrounded our camp, the truth was simple: there was nowhere else. No roads, no towns, no comfort in distance. Just the firelight and the bond we were slowly forging.

Paul’s gaze lingered, scrutinising my face for a beat longer. Then something in his posture shifted. His shoulders eased. He understood. Not everything needed pursuit. Not every wound needed immediate stitching.

"Besides, we're not done," I added, my words falling gently but firmly.

"We're not?" His voice held a flicker of surprise, like he’d forgotten—amidst the awkwardness and retreat—that there had been purpose in our gathering, and that purpose still stood.

I turned back to the fire, its flames now lower, gentler, casting long shadows that danced across the ground. The crackling had softened, become more rhythmic, like the quiet breath of something alive.

Paul didn’t speak again. He simply knelt down beside me once more, slower this time. Deliberate. Present.

And just as I opened my mouth to speak, something caught in my throat. The pressure of the day—the fear, the confusion, the sense of being adrift in a world that refused to explain itself—tightened inside my chest.

A single tear slipped free, tracing a hot path down my cheek before I could stop it. I didn’t wipe it away.

"I'm grateful for Clivilius," I whispered, the name carrying a thousand untold stories. The syllables felt strange on my tongue, and yet… truthful. It wasn’t just a place anymore—it was a turning point. A mystery. A crucible. A new beginning carved out of everything I didn’t yet understand.

The fire cracked once more, like a quiet affirmation.

Without waiting for Paul to respond, to add another note of gratitude to the hush of the night, I rose to my feet. The movement was swift, more instinct than thought, a visceral need to extract myself from the raw intimacy of the moment. The air around the fire suddenly felt too thick, too watchful. I needed distance—space to breathe, to compose, to hide.

My steps away from the circle were light but hurried, a silent retreat into the folds of the medical tent. It welcomed me like a shadowed embrace, the flap falling closed behind me with a soft whisper. Sanctuary.

Inside, the silence deepened. The dim glow from the fire seeped faintly through the fabric, staining the canvas walls with fleeting warmth that didn’t quite reach me. It was cooler here, quieter. I wiped at the tears clinging stubbornly to my cheeks, frustration bubbling beneath the vulnerability. Why did I let that happen? I wasn't used to being seen like that—unguarded, exposed. I had always kept control. Until now.

My fingers found the sleeping bag Kain had so thoughtfully left. The gesture was kind, practical. Quietly reassuring. I unzipped it carefully, the sound of nylon sliding free from its constraints the only punctuation in the heavy quiet. I spread it out across the tent floor with focus, my body seeking movement to match the restless churn of my thoughts.

The darkness inside the tent seemed to expand with every second, stretching wider, thicker—as if it, too, was trying to swallow the day's strangeness. Yet that weight of blackness brought a peculiar comfort. Out there, every word, every glance, carried implication. In here, I was faceless, thoughtless, at least for a moment. Hidden.

Instead of crawling inside the sleeping bag, I lay on top of it, the heat of the night rendering its warmth unnecessary. The thin fabric beneath me felt like a tether to the world, a boundary between me and the endless unknown outside. I stared upwards into the dark ceiling of the tent, but in my mind, it stretched higher, becoming sky. An infinity of unanswered questions.

Joel. His face swam before my eyes, pale and slack one moment, twitching with life the next. Was he dead? Was he ever really alive again? The image of him walking, bleeding, looking through us but never quite at us—it unsettled something deep in my core. And those waters… the lagoon. There was something unnatural about their stillness. Something sacred. Or dangerous. Or both.

What were they? Healing? Preserving? Undoing time itself?

The idea teetered on the brink of the ridiculous—but I had seen too much now to dismiss anything outright. Logic no longer felt like a useful compass in this world.

And still, even amidst all the madness, my thoughts found their way back to him. My father. His voice. His notebooks. His impossible theories. Did he know? Had he been here? Had he touched those waters? The questions wrapped themselves around my heart and squeezed tight.

If what we’d found was even partly what he had spoken of—then the wildest, most terrifying possibility remained: that he was still alive. Somewhere. Waiting. Hiding. Or searching, just like me.

The realisation hit me in a wave, drawing the breath from my lungs.

"I will find you, Father," I whispered into the darkness, my voice low but resolute.

Not a wish. Not a hope.

A promise.