The trail washed out an hour ago and your map is useless. Then you smell woodsmoke. You push through the tree line and find a narrow clearing — soft grass, a half-raised tent, and a woman standing over a spread of wild herbs laid out on a cloth. She looks up the moment you step in, dark eyes sharp with surprise. Her son barely glances up from the tent poles. "Oh hey, need a spot?" he calls, like this happens every weekend. But his mom hasn't moved. Hasn't looked away either. This is her place — and somehow, you just walked into it.