The mother held a long sugarcane stalk, lifting it high as though testing her strength. Then she ‘hid’ it behind her ear with a dramatic flourish.
The calf trumpeted in frustration, stretching its trunk, tipping forward slightly before stumbling back.
She made exaggerated chewing motions, lips smacking as if mocking her offspring. The calf froze, trunk drooping, eyes widein confusion and awe, before she “swallowed” in slow, deliberate mockery.
I couldn’t help but smile, small and fragile. Even amidst the horror of last night, amidst inheritance clauses and blood debts, life persisted here—gentle, absurd, playful.
The elephant mother nudged her calf with her trunk, a silent lesson in patience. The baby squealed, trumpeting in mock protest, and I felt an almost imperceptible lift in my chest.
Then—slowly, deliberately, with a playful glint that felt almost human—the mother elephant brought the sugarcane stalk back out from behind her ear and dangled it inches from her calf’s face.
The baby squealed in unrestrained delight, a high, breathless sound that cut through the quiet morning like laughter.
He lunged forward, uncoordinated, his little legs scrambling in the dirt as he reached.
His trunk wrapped clumsily around his mother’s, tangling with it, holding on as though afraid she might vanish if he let go.
They stood like that—trunks entwined, massive and small, swaying gently together. The mother released a deep rumble from her chest, a sound so low it vibrated the air rather than pierced it. It reminded me of distant thunder rolling across open plains. A sound of reassurance. Of love. Of I am here.
I watched, transfixed.
A small smile tugged at my lips.
How beautiful nature is.
How cruel humans can be.
Footsteps crunched behind me.
Not soft. Not hesitant.
Several sets. Heavy. Purposeful.
The sound pulled me out of the moment like a blade sliding between ribs. I turned slowly, my body already bracing for whatever came next.
Petros led four men down the path toward the enclosure. All were dressed in dark suits despite the morning sun, their movements efficient, eyes sharp, posture unmistakably trained. They stopped when they saw me, boots halting in unison on the gravel.
“Good morning, Mrs. Baranov,” one of them said quietly, respectfully.
The title hit me like cold water.
Mrs. Baranov.
It felt formal. Alien. As though it belonged to someone else—someone harder, colder, more prepared for this world than I was.
I nodded stiffly and stepped aside as they continued past me toward the elephants. Something in my chest tightened, instinctive and immediate.
I followed at a distance.
Petros spoke in a low voice to the others—controlled, professional—but enough carried on the wind that I caught fragments.
“...documentation is complete...”
“...the new owner would like it.”
One of the men gestured toward the calf.
The words slammed into me.
