Elara wiped her hands on her apron and rose slowly, her knees cracking like twigs. The ibis stood on one leg, its long, curved beak trembling. Its feathers, once the blaze of a tropical sunrise, were matted and dull. One wing dragged in the tannin-black water. It did not try to fly when she approached.

That afternoon, she carried the ibis back to the bank. She set it gently on a cushion of moss. The bird looked at her, then at the sky. It took a halting step. Then another. It spread its mended wing—still stiff, but whole.

“You’re healing,” she said, and her voice cracked.