Morning arrived without sunlight.
The sky was pale, drained of color, as though the storm had taken the sun with it when it passed. A strange stillness clung to the village — birds silent, air heavy, and even the river seeming to hold its breath.
Asma awoke to that silence. For the first time since childhood, she couldn't hear the sound of flowing water through her window. The river had always been the village's heartbeat. Now, it was as if that heart had stopped.
She rose quietly, slipping the glowing cord into her satchel. The tiger charm pulsed faintly, its rhythm uneven — almost like it was trying to warn her.
When she stepped outside, the fog was thin but unmoving, a white shroud hugging the ground. Her grandmother sat by the doorway, eyes closed, lips moving soundlessly. For a moment, Asma thought she was praying — until she realized her grandmother's lips weren't forming words at all. They were mimicking something, as if repeating a whisper only she could hear.
"Grandma?"
The old woman's eyes opened slowly, cloudy and distant. "It's happening again," she murmured. "They're walking."
"Who?"
Her grandmother's gaze drifted toward the river. "The ones who were never buried."
---
Asma's pulse quickened. She followed the path to the riverbank, each step sinking slightly into the damp soil. The air was colder here. The bamboo grove trembled, though there was no wind.
And then she saw them — faint outlines moving between the reeds. Shadows.
At first, she thought it was the fog playing tricks, but no — they were too deliberate, too human.
Translucent figures drifted along the water's edge, their shapes shifting like reflections on rippling glass. Some knelt as if searching for something. Others stared into the current, faces blurred, mouths moving in silence.
Alok appeared beside her, breath misting in the chill. "You see them too?"
"Yes," she whispered. "But they're clearer today."
He raised his camera slowly, the lens trembling. "I thought they were just residual images. But look—" He turned the display toward her. The screen showed nothing — no fog, no figures, only the still river.
"They don't appear on film," he muttered. "Just like—"
"—Just like memories," Asma finished.
The tiger charm glowed brighter, the light bleeding through the fabric of her satchel. The shadows reacted — several heads turned toward her at once.
"They can see me," she said softly.
---
One of the shadows stepped closer — a tall figure draped in what looked like tattered guild robes. The faintest echo of a symbol shimmered across its chest — the mark of the Artisans' Guild.
Its voice was a ripple in the air. "Return what was promised."
Asma froze. "What promise?"
"Memory must not bleed into flesh," it said, the words layered with dozens of overlapping tones — male, female, ancient, young. "You opened the seal. You carry her thread. You carry our hunger."
The charm grew hot, searing against her skin. She stumbled back, and the shadow extended a hand — not to strike, but to reach, pleadingly. "Free us before the river takes shape again."
Then, as suddenly as they appeared, the figures dissolved, vanishing into mist.
Alok grabbed her arm. "We have to find out what they mean. If the guild really bound memories into objects—"
"Then releasing them is dangerous," Asma finished, shaking. "What if the river isn't just remembering? What if it's rebuilding?"
---
They spent the day searching the ruined guild chamber again. The bowl of crystal shards had cracked overnight, spilling fragments across the floor. The air shimmered faintly, charged like static before a storm.
Asma knelt, brushing her fingers over one of the fragments — and again, reality twisted.
She saw flashes — a village aflame, torches reflected on the water's surface, the masked man standing on the opposite bank shouting orders to unseen figures. The river was swollen, blood-red under the storm.
Then, a woman's scream — sharp, heart-wrenching — and the image shattered.
Asma fell to her knees, gasping. "The guild… they caused this. They used the river for something terrible."
Alok nodded grimly. "Their 'art' was built on sacrifice. The relics were vessels — they transferred memory by taking something in exchange. A life, a moment, a soul."
Asma touched the cord again, suddenly aware of its weight. "Then how many souls does this hold?"
Neither of them spoke for a long time. The sound of dripping water filled the silence, steady as a heartbeat.
---
That night, the village dreamed as one.
Men and women awoke screaming, claiming they had seen their younger selves walking into the river. Others said they'd spoken with dead relatives who asked for things they couldn't remember losing.
Asma sat upright in her bed, drenched in sweat. The tiger charm was glowing again — brighter than ever, its pulse syncing with her own.
Outside her window, faint shapes moved through the fog once more — but these were different.
They had form, weight. Shadows that cast shadows.
She heard Alok calling from the street. "Asma! Come out — now!"
She ran outside, and her breath caught.
The entire riverbank was glowing — lines of light spreading across the mud like veins, forming a vast sigil that pulsed with rhythm.
The shadows moved around it, not like ghosts, but like worshippers at an ancient altar.
At the center of the light, something was forming.
A figure — tall, graceful, and carved from the same shimmering essence as the relic shards. Its face was obscured, but Asma could sense recognition. The same woman from her visions.
The woman's voice was both thunder and whisper. "The boundary weakens. The river's memory seeks a vessel. You have what it desires."
"The cord?" Asma asked.
The woman nodded. "It is the last key. Once joined with the others, the river will awaken fully."
"And what happens when it does?" Alok demanded.
The woman's eyes turned toward him, filled with sorrow. "Then time will drown itself. Memory will replace life. And none of you will remain as you are."
---
The light flared, blinding white. The woman vanished, and the sigil burned itself into the earth before fading away.
Alok exhaled shakily. "We're out of time, Asma. Whatever's coming… it's close."
Asma stared at the river. It looked calm, innocent — but beneath that surface, she could hear faint murmurs.
Not one voice — many.
They whispered names.
They whispered hers.
---
The next morning, she found a letter at her doorstep. The handwriting was old-fashioned, ink faded but steady.
> "The river will call again on the night of the twin moons.
When it does, you must choose — memory or flesh.
Do not let it take both."
There was no name at the bottom. Only a mark — the same sigil that had glowed on the riverbank.
Asma folded the letter carefully. The paper felt damp, as though it had been underwater before reaching her hands.
She turned toward the horizon, where two pale circles had begun to rise — one sun, one ghostly moon behind it.
The first warning had been spoken.
Now the faint shadows were no longer just memory.
They were waiting.