The storm that had passed over the village two nights ago left the world washed clean, but the river still murmured as if it had unfinished business. At dawn Asma followed Alok through the mist. The air smelled of clay and wild ginger; droplets clung to the bamboo leaves and fell like slow rain.
They had found the entrance the previous evening — a hollow in the riverbank where the earth had collapsed, revealing the edge of a stone passageway. Alok's lamp threw a trembling light across the opening.
"Old structure," he whispered. "Look at the carvings. Pre-Ahom, maybe older."
Asma crouched beside him. The stones were covered in moss, yet beneath the green she could trace faint spirals and animal shapes — a tiger, a serpent, a sun-disc half buried in mud.
Something in the air changed as they stepped closer; the wind stilled, and the sound of the river faded to a heartbeat.
Alok handed her a second lamp. "Stay behind me. The ground might be loose."
The passage was narrow at first, smelling of wet stone and roots. Water trickled down the walls and collected in shallow pools. The further they went, the colder the air became until their breath turned to mist. The light from their lamps shimmered against crystals embedded in the rock like tiny stars.
"This doesn't feel natural," Asma murmured.
"Maybe it isn't," Alok replied. His voice echoed softly ahead.
After what felt like an hour, the tunnel widened into a chamber. The floor was paved with uneven slabs, and in the center stood a stone altar blackened by time. Around it lay fragments of pottery, a rusted blade, and a row of clay figures shaped like kneeling humans. Each had its eyes closed and hands pressed together as if in prayer.
Asma approached one, brushing away dust. "These faces… they look almost alive."
"They were offerings," Alok said. "To something powerful."
He lifted his camera to take a picture, but the flash failed. The light flickered, then died. Only Asma's lamp remained, its flame shrinking.
A low hum began — not from the lamp, not from the earth, but from within the air itself. The clay figures seemed to tremble.
"Asma," Alok said quietly, "don't move."
The hum grew louder, shaping itself into a rhythm — a chant carried by voices too old to belong to the living. The shadows of the figures stretched, joining at the center of the room. In that darkness, something glimmered — a small object half buried in the altar's cracks.
Compelled by instinct, Asma stepped forward. She brushed away the dirt and pulled free a piece of metal no larger than her palm — a pendant shaped like a spiral sun, etched with river-patterns. The instant she touched it, warmth surged through her arm, not burning but alive.
The humming stopped. Silence crashed over them.
"Asma, what did you do?"
She looked down; faint light pulsed within the pendant, matching her heartbeat. "I… I think it recognizes me."
Before Alok could answer, the river roared above them. The floor trembled; dust fell like snow. They ran toward the tunnel mouth, but the entrance had sealed — mud and stone sliding into place as if the cave itself wished to keep them inside.
They stood in the dim glow of the pendant. The clay figures no longer prayed; their faces had turned toward Asma. Cracks split their lips as if ready to speak
The wind that swept across the river carried a hiss that was almost a voice.
Asma pressed her palms together and whispered a prayer she half-remembered from childhood.
The air around her rippled—the scent of wet earth giving way to something older, metallic, like rusted iron mixed with jasmine.
Alok stood behind her, his flashlight flickering weakly against the stones.
"The carvings," he murmured, kneeling near the wall. "They're not tribal. They're pre-Ahom. Maybe even older."
He brushed away the moss and revealed a spiral of intertwined serpents, each biting the tail of the next.
In the center of the pattern sat a small depression, shaped exactly like the tiger charm from Asma's cord.
A tremor passed through the ground.
The lamp died.
From the darkness came a pulse of blue light—thin, trembling lines crawling up the walls like veins waking after centuries of sleep.
Water began to rise around their ankles.
The relics embedded in the soil—tiny beads, broken bangles, fragments of bronze—glowed softly before vanishing into the flood.
"Asma," Alok said quietly, "don't move."
She turned. A figure had appeared at the mouth of the tunnel—an outline of mist, neither man nor shadow.
It stepped closer, its shape bending with the current, and when it spoke, the words came in ripples instead of sound.
"You carry what was promised."
Asma felt the cord around her wrist tighten, the tiger charm burning against her skin.
The figure's hand, translucent and trembling, pointed to the wall.
A faint doorway shimmered where none had been before.
"Inside," it whispered, "lies the debt of the river."
The light vanished.
Silence rushed in like a second flood.
When she could breathe again, Alok grabbed her arm. "We can't stay here. The tunnel's collapsing!"
But Asma pulled away. "It's calling me. Don't you feel it?"
The air thickened, humming with unseen wings.
For a heartbeat, Alok saw another face overlay hers—a woman with eyes like molten gold, the same cord wound around her throat like a vow.
Then it was gone.
They stumbled toward the shimmer, the ground trembling beneath each step.
Inside the hidden doorway, the chamber widened.
Stone shelves lined the walls, each holding relics wrapped in faded silk—bracelets, coins, locks of hair tied with red thread.
The air was warm, alive, breathing.
"These aren't offerings," Alok whispered. "They're—"
"Memories," Asma finished. "The river keeps what we forget."
At the center stood a basin filled with dark water.
When Asma leaned closer, her reflection rippled into another's—a boy about her age, smiling faintly, the same tiger charm hanging from his wrist.
Her pulse hammered.
"Grandmother's river boy," she whispered. "He was real."
Alok crouched beside her, notebook forgotten.
He reached into the water and pulled out a thin, golden leaf etched with runes.
The moment it touched air, the cavern trembled again; droplets rose upward, suspended like stars.
Symbols lit across the ceiling, forming words neither of them could read.
And then the voice returned—this time clearer, woven from both wind and water:
"The debt must be carried. The relic awakens only in blood."
The golden leaf cut Alok's palm as if alive.
Blood slid down his fingers and dripped into the basin.
The water hissed, turned black, and began to swirl.
"Asma, run!"
She couldn't.
The current pulled at her feet, dragging her toward the basin.
The relics on the shelves vibrated, whispering in countless forgotten tongues.
One after another, they dissolved into dust that rose like mist and circled her body.
A low hum filled her chest, and the tiger charm on her wrist glowed brighter than the torchlight.
The water surged upward and swallowed her whole.
Asma wakes to find herself on a small island formed by the split in the river. Around her, fragments of carved stones and bronze pieces lie half-buried in sand. They seem to hum faintly when touched—echoes of stories trapped inside them.
Alok finds her and helps her back to the village, but both notice that one relic, a jagged shard etched with the tiger emblem, glows whenever it nears Asma's bracelet.
That night, the relics in her bag begin to rattle. The sound draws Asma outside; the river is shining with lines of light like veins under the water. She hears overlapping whispers—voices of people who once vanished near the river. When she drops the glowing shard into the current, the light spreads across the whole surface, forming the ghostly outline of a door beneath the water.
Alok sketches the pattern quickly. "It's a portal mark," he murmurs, "an ancient one."
Asma, trembling, steps closer. The door pulses, inviting. Then a voice, clear and almost human, rises from the river:
> "The debt is not yet paid. The river remembers."