Nobody in the village of Songsam would go near the black pine tree at the top of the hill. Not even Old Grandfather Choe, who claimed he'd once arm-wrestled a dokkaebi goblin and won.

But twelve-year-old Somi had been watching the pine tree for three nights straight, and she had a feeling. Not a scared feeling. A *pull* feeling. Like when you smell tteok rice cakes baking somewhere and you just have to follow your nose.

This is the kind of bedtime story that gets passed down like a warm bowl of soup — generation to generation, each person adding a little of their own heat before handing it on.

—

The first night, Somi heard a sound like wind, but shaped like crying.

The second night, she saw two lights in the dark — orange, round, alive.

The third night, she put on her mother's old jeogori jacket (it smelled of dried chrysanthemums and sesame oil), picked up a cloth bundle of food, and walked up the hill.

The jangseung totem poles at the edge of the village watched her go. Their tall wooden faces — one scowling, one grinning — seemed to ask: *You sure about this, little one?*

"Not really," Somi whispered. "But I'm going anyway."

The pine forest smelled sharp and cold, like the whole mountain was breathing out. Moonlight fell between the branches in silver ribbons. And there, curled beneath the great roots like a cat beneath a table, was the biggest tiger Somi had ever seen.

But something was wrong with it.

Its fur, which should have been burning orange striped with deep black, was pale — almost grey. Like a painting left out in the rain. Its great sides rose and fell slowly, and its eyes, when it opened them, were the colour of dying coals.

"Why are you here?" the tiger rumbled. Its voice was like a boulder rolling downhill. "Humans don't come to my tree."

Somi's legs wanted very badly to run. She told them to stop being ridiculous.

"I brought food," she said. She opened her bundle and laid everything on the pine needles. Rice cakes. Persimmons, bright and cold to the touch. A small clay jar of honey.

The tiger stared at the bundle. Then at Somi. Then back at the bundle.

"Is this a trick?"

"No."

"Humans always have tricks."

"Some do," Somi agreed. "I don't. I'm honestly not that clever."

The tiger made a sound — somewhere between a growl and something else entirely. Something that was almost, almost a laugh.

—

She sat down beside the food and waited. (This is the kind of story, perfect for ages 6-12, where the waiting matters just as much as anything else.)

The tiger didn't move for a long time. The stars shifted overhead. Somewhere far below, a dog barked twice and went quiet. Then slowly, like a cloud crossing the moon, the tiger uncurled itself and came closer.

Up close, it was enormous. Its paws were the size of Somi's head. Each whisker was as long as a chopstick. And now she could see what the dark had hidden before — tangled around its left leg, tight and cruel, was a length of rough rope.

A trap. Someone had set a trap, and the tiger had been caught in it.

"Can I look at your leg?" Somi asked.

"No."

"Does it hurt?"

A long silence. The wind moved through the pine needles with a sound like distant bells. "Yes."

"Then let me help."

"Why would you?"

Somi thought about it honestly. "Because you're hurting and I know how to help. My grandmother taught me about knots. She says every knot has a secret — a place where, if you pull just right, the whole thing comes loose."

Those coal-coloured eyes regarded her. Something moved in them — something old and sad and exhausted.

"Humans made this knot," the tiger said.

"I know." She met its gaze and didn't look away. "I'm sorry about that. Not all of us are the same."

—

The tiger let her close.

The rope was thick and rough and had bitten deep into the fur, rubbing the skin beneath raw and red. Somi's fingers worked carefully, the way her grandmother had shown her — not forcing, but *listening* to the knot, feeling for its secret shape. Her hands were cold. The tiger's fur was warm as sun-baked stone.

"You're not afraid," the tiger said, watching her.

"I am," Somi said. "My heart is going *so* fast right now, you have no idea."

"Then why are you still here?"

"Because being afraid and running away are two different things." She pulled one loop free. Then another. Her fingernails bent and stung. She kept going. "Almost — *there.*"

The rope fell into the pine needles like a dead snake.

The tiger lifted its leg. Pressed its great paw slowly to the earth.

And something extraordinary happened.

The grey drained away from its fur like mist burning off a river. Orange flooded back — fierce, blazing, beautiful as a mountain sunset. The black stripes deepened. The eyes opened wide, and they were gold — *truly* gold — and Somi suddenly understood she was looking at something that was not quite only a tiger.

The mountain spirit Sansin, the old bearded guardian of this mountain, was said to ride a great tiger through the pine forests. But perhaps, Somi thought, sometimes the guardian and the mountain and the tiger were all one and the same thing.

"How long?" she asked quietly.

"Since the coldest winter," the tiger said. Its voice was different now — deeper, warmer, like it came from somewhere under the earth. "I couldn't move. Couldn't let the sun back into the mountain. The crops failed. The birds stopped singing." It paused. "I frightened your village. I thought if I frightened them enough, someone brave enough would come."

"They were too scared."

"Yes." The tiger looked at its own healed leg for a long moment. "Fear makes things worse. I know that. I was the one making it worse, and I knew it, and I kept doing it anyway."

Somi was quiet.

"You could have asked," she said gently. "Instead of growling."

A silence that stretched like the whole dark sky.

"I didn't know how," the tiger said, and its voice was so small for such a large creature that Somi felt her chest ache.

"You say: *I'm hurting. Can you help me?*" She said it simply, like it was nothing. "That's all. Just those words."

The tiger breathed out — a long, slow breath that moved the pine branches and carried the smell of deep forest and cold stone and something sweet underneath, like plums, like rain.

"I'll remember that," it said.

—

By the time Somi walked back down the hill, the black pine tree was no longer black. It was green — brilliant, shimmering green, each needle catching the moonlight like a tiny lantern lit from within.

When she passed the jangseung totem poles at the village gate, she glanced up at their carved faces. Both of them, somehow, were smiling now.

She slept deeply that night.

In the morning, every farmer in Songsam woke to find the earth soft and sweet-smelling, ready for planting at last. And on every doorstep — every single one — lay a single orange and black feather.

Impossible, of course. Tigers don't have feathers.

Old Grandfather Choe tucked his in his hat and wore it to the market with tremendous pride, telling anyone who would listen that *he* had sorted the whole thing out personally.

Somi kept hers under her pillow.

On nights when the cold wind came rolling down off the mountain, she would hold it in the dark — and feel it warm between her fingers. Warm as fur. Warm as firelight. Warm as something that had been alone and frightened and hurting, and then wasn't anymore.