Небольшой рассказ про тигра на английском языке

At dawn, a thin mist lay over the mangrove creeks when the tiger stepped from the reeds. His coat caught the first light in flickers of orange and black, not flame but something steadier, like embers that had learned patience. He moved without hurry, paws spreading his weight so the mud did not complain. Egrets froze on their stilts. A crab stopped mid-scribble.

He was not hungry yet. Hunger came as a clean bell inside his ribs, and today it had not rung. So he walked the edge of the water, reading the morning—hoofprints softened by the tide, a curl of boar hair snagged on root, a faint musk in the air where a rival had passed. He answered with a whisk of his tail and a scrape of bark, a quiet signature.

From a fishing skiff, a boy watched. The boy had been told stories: the tiger as ghost, as judge, as stripe-masked king. What he saw was an animal built honestly for its life. The tiger paused, turned his great head, and met the boy’s gaze across the channel. It was not a challenge. It was a measure—two creatures checking the distance between their worlds.

A breeze lifted, carrying salt and mangrove tea. The tiger blinked, then slid back into the green, stripes dissolving into shadow. The boy exhaled, set his oar, and pushed off. Behind him, the creek stitched itself closed, and the day went on, each track already softening under the sun.