Once we reached flat ground, the tigress did something I never expected. Instead of running into the forest, she stayed there, breathing heavily, staring straight into my eyes.

Her amber eyes seemed to want to say something. I was about to take a step back when suddenly three men in camouflage emerged from the bushes.

They were holding rifles. One of them squinted and said:

— There’s our prize. Thanks, buddy, for getting her out.

I understood immediately: poachers. They had been waiting for the tigress to weaken so they could kill her. I stepped between them and the animal, even though my heart was pounding so hard it roared in my ears.

— Step back, — I ordered, trying to sound confident. — This tigress is protected by law.

They exchanged glances and smiled. One lifted his rifle, but at that moment the tigress roared so loudly that the ground shook.

To my surprise, she didn’t leap at me, but at the poachers. They stumbled back, unable to fire. The animal sprinted into the forest and vanished into the mist.

I stood there, trying to catch my breath. The men cursed, but didn’t come closer — either out of fear or because they knew it was over.

Since that day, I often returned to that trail. And one day, a few months later, through the mist, I felt that same gaze on me again.

On a rock about twenty meters away stood the same tigress. Alive. Free. And in her eyes, I read something that looked like… gratitude.