A penniless bloke rescues a drowning girlHe held her close as they swam to shore, where the sunrise painted their newfound bond in golden light.

23.06.2026, 02:35 blysk.space

**Diary 12April**

I had just slipped my meagre evening catch into a wicker basket and was making my way down the narrow track toward the ramshackle cart I keep by the river when I froze, as if a bolt from the sky had struck me. The rivers heavy, impenetrable mist seemed to swallow sound, yet a desperate wail rose from the gloommore a dying moan than a shout, a animallike terror that sent a shiver racing up my spine. A womans cry cut through the howl of wind in the ancient pine crowns, the gust tearing at her voice, but I could still make out the words. She wasnt merely calling for help; she was begging, pouring the last strength of her soul into that scream. Beside her, another presence broke the surface, its frantic splashes echoing to the bank.

Without a second thought I hurled the basket; a handful of silverglinting minnows spilled onto the damp sand. Stripping my heavy, patched coat and the workworn trousers, I was left in a threadbare shirt and lunged into the black, chilling water. The wind, like a rabid beast, whipped the waves, slapping foam and spray across my face.

The swim was unbearable. The current, usually a lazy companion, was treacherous today, clawing at my legs with cold, watery hands. Near the rivers main channel, where the water grew especially dark and deep, a girl was fighting for her life. Her dark hair floated like seaweed, sometimes rising to the crest of a wave, sometimes sinking helplessly into the black abyss that threatened to swallow her whole. The young man she had been pleading with seemed already on the opposite bank. He did not look back; his movements were sharp, frightened. Grabbing a small inflatable boat, he turned his back on the forests edge, eager to disappear into its sheltering thicket.

The girls cries faded. She no longer broke the surface. When I, Victor Iles, exhausted my last strength and reached the fatal spot, the water spread only slow, ominous circles. My heart sank to my heels. I gulped a lungful of air, then plunged into the icy gloom. My hands felt the slick fabric of my coat; I seized the limp body from behind, using my other hand like an oar while my legs kicked desperately, driving me back toward shore. Each stroke burned my muscles, each breath was a groan, but I kept moving, clinging to life and to the life in my arms.

When I hauled the girlEmilyonto the bank, fatigue left me numb, yet I set to work. My calloused hands, accustomed to hard labour, acted swiftlyturns, presses, artificial respiration. Cloudy river water burst from her lungs and a hoarse, broken cough followed. Her breathing, weak but steady, returned. I needed to warm her. I gathered the dying embers from an old campfire, built a quick platform of flat river stones, and covered it with a thick layer of pine needles. I laid Emily gently on this makeshift bed, tucked her in with my only jacketworn, smelling of smoke and sweat. I collected the scattered belongings, wrestled damp clothing onto her stiffening form, and settled by a newly kindled fire, extending my trembling, frostwhite hands toward its heat.

The warmth crept in slowly, as if reluctant to penetrate frozen flesh. Emily lay motionless; only the faint vapor rising from her breath testified to life. The cold water and the shock had done their work, but I knewjust as the rivers bends had always taught methat time would bring her back to consciousness. I lifted my gaze to the sky, thick with low, heavy clouds. Not even the moon could pierce that leaden veil. The world felt empty and bleak.

I stared at the dancing flames, and they dragged me back to a night just as mercilessly grey, a night that had taken everything from me.

It had been that very evening when Lottie, our little Tommy, and I set out for a fishing trip, as we did almost every summer. Leaving my wife to tend to the tent with our son, I pushed off from the bank in our old but reliable boat.

Warm yourselves with a cuppa, Ill be back with a good haul and well have the finest fish stew in the world! I called cheerfully to Lottie, my smile wide and carefree.

Just be careful, Victor, the weathers turning, my wife warned, eyes fixed on the gathering clouds.

I know every stone out here! Dont worry! I shouted back, the oars slicing the mirrorsmooth water.

I dropped my lines into my favourite spot and settled into the familiar ritual of waiting. Suddenly the sky blackened as if night had fallen early. A gusty wind bent the trees to the ground, and a wall of water crashed from the sky. The boat was tossed, carried sideways, and a deafening, dry snap echoedmy hull had caught on a hidden snag, a twisted branch jutting up like a dagger. Air hissed out with a sour whine, and within moments the boat shredded into a shapeless piece of rubberised canvas.

I tried to swim, but a sharp, burning cramp seized my leg in the frigid water. The raging elements overwhelmed me; the current slammed me into something hard, and darkness swallowed my senses. I awoke three days later on a hard wooden pallet in a strange cottage that reeked of smoke and herbs. Standing to rise sent a wave of dizziness and nausea through me. At the doorway shuffled an ancient man, his face a map of deep wrinkles.

Got your senses back, he muttered, setting a steaming bowl of broth on a low stool. Drink this herb tea; itll staunch the bleeding. Have some porridge, or youll waste away.

Where am I? I croaked, the name of a faroff county ringing in my ears, and horror settled in as I realised Id been carried dozens, perhaps hundreds, of miles from home.

The forest took you, lad, the old man said after a pause. Hunters dragged me you barely alive. Thought youd not make it.

I tried again to sit up, but the man waved a withered finger at me.

Stay down, dont act the hero. Youve lost bloodno point in moving. Rest, recover.

What about my family? My wife, my son they think Im dead! Desperation cracked my voice. I imagined Lotties anguish, my heart clenching tight.

No postoffice here, just woods, wolves howling, bears growling. A whole wild. He sighed, We live on herbs, mushrooms, nuts, berries. In winter we store what we can. Hunters drop by now and then with a few provisions. Thats my life, twenty years now.

He collapsed onto his pallet, and soon the room fell silent, the dim light of a single oil lamp flickering against the walls. Shadows danced, forming fleeting silhouettes of Lottie and Tommy. A cold ache settled in my chest, the wind outside howling like a lost soul.

Days merged, each movementturning my head, sitting up, lifting a spoonfelt like a small triumph, a sliver of joy. At the hermits urging I began to help: shovelling snow from the doorway, fetching firewood, stoking the stove. The simple peaandroot stew he boiled from wild roots no longer disgusted me; hunger and survival outweighed revulsion. The tea he brewed from summergathered herbs reminded me of Lotties habit of adding mint and thyme to her own brewsweet and bitter at once, like a lingering wound.

Winter dragged on, seemingly frozen in place. When spring finally crept in, the snow reluctantly melted, exposing the earth inch by inch. Two more months of a tugofwar between frost and thaw passed before I felt the strength return to my legs. The old man, now frail, whispered, I cant guide you out as promised. Im down for good. You must go on your own.

You cant stay alone! Let me take you to the town, the doctors

Doctors? None of your city surgeons could fix what weve both endured. Weve kept each other alive with poultices and prayer. Go, lad. Ill mend myself in time.

He pointed me toward the road, and I set off, grateful for his aid. The path that had seemed straightforward turned into a labyrinth of hedgerows. I walked until night fell, with no sign of a trail. I spent the night beneath a stand of firs. At dawn, a soft rustle behind me made me turngreen glints flickered in the gloom: wolves. I scrambled up the nearest oak, clutching the bark until sunrise, nails digging into the rough wood. The pack, after a moment of sniffing the air, retreated into the shadows. Descending felt like courting death.

The following days blurred. I met a boarlike boar, a lynx perched on a branch, and endured sleepless nights in trees. I survived on wild berries, roots, and clear water from forest streams, always alert to any sound. Yet surrender never entered my mind; I had to reach home, alive.

Two weeks later, a dark rectangle emerged among the treesa derelict cottage. I crawled to it, almost fainting from exhaustion. Inside lay dust, dry pine needles, and a thin straw mattress. A single window let in a shaft of light, illuminating a rusted tin kettle, a halffilled bag of oats, and a metal mug.

Outside I gathered branches, found a small clearing, and built a fire. I boiled water from the stream in a tin, steeped dried currant leaves and mint Id salvaged from the cottage. The first sip of the hot, fragrant drink brought a fleeting sense of comfort. I bolted the door with a sturdy branch and curled into the dry straw bedding, finally sleeping like a dead man.

A bears roar woke me the next morning, close enough that my heart hammered. The sturdy timber walls gave me a thin shield of safety. I knew I could not wander further; the forest was a death sentence. I decided to stay, to wait out the winter, hoping one day I might return home.

With few matches left, I learned to strike fire with flint, dried mushrooms and berries over the stove, and collected medicinal herbs, recalling the old mans teachings. Weeks turned into months. One dawn, distant gunshots and barking dogs pierced the silence. I bolted from the cottage in my threadbare shirt, shouting, stumbling over roots.

Voices answered. After what felt like an eternity, four hunters emerged from the trees, having been drawn to the area by the sounds. They led me back to civilization. I rode in a lorry for more than a day, barely sleeping, clutching my fists in nervous anticipation. When I finally stood before the familiar door of the

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