The rain had returned that night, heavier than before. The river moaned beneath the swollen clouds, its silver waters turning dark as ink. The wind carried voices—soft, indistinguishable, but alive—echoing between the bamboo groves and over the thatched roofs of Asma's sleeping village.
Asma couldn't sleep. Ever since the relics had been unearthed from beneath the banyan tree—a rusted pendant, shards of glass beads, and the fragment of a mirror that shimmered with its own faint light—her nights were filled with whispers. When she closed her eyes, she saw faces reflected in that half-broken mirror: faces of people she had never met, but who seemed to know her name.
She rose quietly from her mat and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. The house was still. Her grandmother's soft snores drifted from the next room. Outside, lightning tore through the clouds, illuminating the river like a silver wound through the earth.
She walked barefoot to the door, the old brass cord—the one the river had given her—looped around her wrist. It pulsed faintly, almost as if alive.
The air outside was heavy with the smell of wet soil and the hum of crickets silenced by the storm. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and a pale fog curled along the riverbank. In the haze, the trees looked like sentinels watching over forgotten graves.
Asma's breath caught when she saw movement by the water.
A figure stood there—half-shadow, half-light.
"Alok?" she whispered.
The man turned. His eyes were calm, but his expression held something new—something distant. "You shouldn't be here, Asma. Not tonight."
"Why?" she asked, stepping closer. "The river—"
"The river remembers," he interrupted softly. "But remembering comes with a price."
He held up something in his hand: a torn photograph, wet from the rain. It was the same picture he'd shown her days ago—the young woman by the riverbank. But now, the other half was visible. Next to the woman stood a young man, his hand reaching for hers. The man's eyes were startlingly familiar.
Asma's heart thudded. "That's you," she breathed. "Isn't it?"
Alok said nothing. He only looked at her, the reflection of lightning dancing in his gaze. "I came here searching for stories," he said quietly, "but some stories remember the tellers."
The wind rose, carrying with it a faint song—a lullaby Asma had heard in childhood, one her grandmother used to hum on nights when the river flooded. The tune wrapped around them, haunting and beautiful.
Then, the river shimmered.
The water began to move against the current, curling inward like a whirlpool. From its depths, faint outlines appeared—silhouettes of men and women, their forms translucent as mist. They drifted toward the bank, faces blurred by the silver glow of the stormlight. One of them stepped forward, and Asma's heart froze.
It was her grandmother—only younger, her eyes bright and alive.
"Asma," the figure said softly, her voice echoing as if carried from a great distance. "The river never forgets its promises."
The air crackled with unseen energy. The cord around Asma's wrist tightened, glowing faintly gold. The figures watched her silently, and one by one, they began to whisper her name.
She fell to her knees. "What are you?" she cried.
Alok knelt beside her. "They are the echoes," he said. "The ones who made promises they couldn't keep."
The ghost of her grandmother raised a hand. "Not ghosts, child—remnants. Fragments left behind so memory does not vanish completely. Every flood, every tide, every storm brings them closer."
Asma's tears mingled with the rain. "Why me? Why now?"
"Because you listened," said the echo. "Because you still believe."
Behind her, the river began to glow brighter, and the whispers became voices. They told stories—of lovers who never returned, of villages swallowed by storms, of vows tied to the roots of the banyan tree and carried away by the floodwaters.
And through it all, Asma felt a pulse beneath her skin—the same rhythm as the river.
Then came the sound of something breaking—the mirror shard in her pocket cracked, spilling faint blue light across her palm. The glow spread like veins of fire, dancing over her skin. She gasped as images filled her vision: a boy weaving the tiger charm; her grandmother laughing in the sun; Alok, standing by the same river decades ago, writing in a leather journal that looked far too old.
The visions faded, leaving only the storm.
When she looked again, the ghosts were gone.
Only Alok remained, but his form shimmered faintly—edges blurred like he was halfway between worlds. "You see now," he murmured. "The past doesn't stay buried."
"You're not real," she whispered.
He smiled sadly. "I was. Once. Before the river took me."
Her breath caught. "You're—?"
"Yes," he said softly. "The boy who promised to return after the monsoon."
The world tilted. Asma's knees weakened. "That's impossible."
"The river kept me," he said. "It keeps all promises, even the broken ones."
He reached out a hand, fingers brushing hers. His touch was cold, like the water itself. "But now," he said, "you can finish what I couldn't."
The rain stopped.
The clouds parted, revealing a sliver of moonlight that bathed the world in pale silver. Alok's figure began to fade, dissolving into mist. But before he vanished, he whispered one last thing.
"The relics are keys, Asma. When you find the last one… you'll know the truth."
And then he was gone.
The river was calm once more, its surface reflecting the first stars of dawn. Asma stood alone on the bank, her heart pounding like a drum. The cord on her wrist glowed faintly, and somewhere in the distance, the lullaby continued—soft, endless, eternal.
She turned to leave, but something glittered in the mud where Alok had stood.
It was a ring—simple, brass, engraved with a tiger curling into its own tail.
She picked it up. The moment her fingers touched the metal, she saw flashes: a temple half-buried in silt, walls carved with ancient script; a boat drifting through fog; a voice whispering her name from beneath the surface.
And then, silence.
Asma looked at the river one last time before walking home. The sun was just beginning to rise, and the mist shimmered gold.
But somewhere deep beneath that still surface, the river stirred again—its currents whispering secrets only the chosen could hear.