The river had always whispered to Asma, but on this night, its voice felt different—older, deeper, almost impatient. The air hung thick with the scent of wet earth as a cold breeze blew across the water, stirring the tall reeds into a restless dance. Moonlight traced silver lines along the ripples, and every shadow seemed to tremble as if carrying a secret of its own.
Asma pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. She shouldn't have come to the river at this hour. The village slept behind her—comfortably unaware, blissfully safe—but something had pulled her out of her bed and drawn her back to this winding, ancient waterway. Something that had begun days ago, something she no longer understood.
Something hiding among the reeds.
Earlier that evening, she had found another mark on the riverbank—fresh, carved into the mud with careful precision. A spiral wrapped inside another spiral. The same symbol Alok had been sketching in his notebook. The same one she had seen faintly etched on the tiger charm of the cord she had found.
But tonight, it glowed.
Not strongly—only a faint, pulsing shimmer—but enough to make the river look alive in an entirely new way.
Her breath caught.
"Why are you calling me?" she whispered.
The reeds rustled violently, though the breeze had stilled. A low hum vibrated through the ground beneath her feet. The river's voice was no longer just a whisper—it was a presence.
She stepped closer, boots sinking slightly into the mud.
"Asma?"
The voice behind her snapped the moment. She jerked around.
Alok stood near the path, a lantern in one hand, notebook clutched in the other. His expression was a blend of worry and something else—something she was beginning to recognize in him but hadn't dared name.
"You shouldn't be out here," he said quietly. "Not tonight."
"And you should?" she shot back, though her voice was softer than she intended.
He didn't answer. Instead, he looked past her toward the reeds, where the faint glow had already begun to fade.
"You saw it too," Asma said.
He nodded. "Yes. And I've been waiting to see it again."
Of course he had. Since arriving in the village, Alok had chased every rumor, every half-forgotten myth, every symbol carved by those who had vanished long ago. He was hunting the past while she was being pulled into it.
Asma stepped aside and pointed at the mud.
"There," she said. "The spiral. It was glowing."
Alok crouched beside it, tracing the pattern without touching it. "This is older than I thought. Much older."
"It wasn't here two days ago."
"That's what worries me."
He glanced up at her. "Something is changing along the river."
Asma felt it too—like the river was turning its face toward them, noticing them for the first time in decades.
Before she could respond, something moved in the water—slow, deliberate, like a hand brushing aside the surface. Asma grabbed Alok's arm instinctively.
The reeds parted.
And a figure stepped out.
Not human. Not fully. A silhouette wrapped in what looked like tangled vines and dripping with river water. The moonlight barely illuminated its features—yet Asma saw the eyes. Pale, silver, unfocused yet strikingly aware.
Alok staggered backward.
"What is that—?"
The figure raised a hand. Water dripped from its fingertips.
Then it spoke.
Not in a language either of them knew. Not even in a voice shaped by breath.
It sounded like rushing water, like the riverbed grinding against stone.
Yet Asma felt the meaning.
"You found the cord."
Her body froze.
Alok stared at her, confused and terrified. "What is it saying? You understand it?"
Before she could answer, the figure stepped closer. Its feet made no sound on the mud, no ripple in the reeds.
"The promise was not forgotten."
Asma's throat tightened.
"Who are you?"
The figure tilted its head. The silver eyes flickered, like reflections on disturbed water.
"A keeper of what was lost."
It extended its hand, palm facing upward.
"Return what is ours."
Asma clutched the woven cord hidden inside her shawl.
Alok placed himself in front of her without hesitation. "You're not taking anything from her."
The reeds shuddered violently, as though the river itself reacted to his defiance.
"It is not yours to guard, outsider."
The force of the voice—even without sound—made Alok stumble. Asma caught his arm, steadying him.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She couldn't tell whether she was more scared or mesmerized.
"What do you want with the cord?" she whispered.
The figure's form wavered—as if made of mist and memory rather than flesh.
"A vow was sealed. A soul was taken.
Now the river seeks what remains."
Taken?
Her grandmother's story flashed in her mind.
The boy who promised to return.
The monsoon that swallowed him whole.
The river that never forgets.
No.
No—it couldn't be—
The figure stepped closer until Asma could see faint carvings across its shadowy skin—spirals like the one on the mud, symbols of the artisans' guild, marks she had seen in Alok's fading photograph.
An impossible realization crept into her mind.
"Are you… the boy?" she whispered.
A pause.
Then—the figure's silver eyes dimmed, and its voice softened into a ripple.
"Once."
Asma's breath collapsed out of her chest.
He raised his hand again, but this time the gesture wasn't threatening—it was almost pleading.
"The river keeps what is bound to it.
But the cord breaks the binding."
Alok stepped closer, careful, controlled.
"What happens if the cord is returned?"
The river wind stilled. Even the insects fell silent.
"Something wakes."
A tremor ran through the earth. The reeds bent sideways as if some heavy force passed beneath them, deep under the soil.
"Something older than me."
Asma felt the cold seep into her bones.
"Why me?" she whispered. "Why was I the one to find it?"
Those silver eyes fixed on her, and for the first time, the figure's form flickered—not like mist, but like a memory straining to hold shape.
"Because you carry the blood of the promise."
Her heart stuttered.
"My grandmother…"
"She began what you will finish."
Asma stumbled backward, dizzy with fear and meaning she didn't yet understand.
A deep rumble rolled across the river.
The figure looked behind it—toward the dark water—and its form began dissolving into mist.
"It wakes.
Keep the cord hidden.
Do not trust the reeds."
"Asma!" Alok grabbed her hand, pulling her away as the river erupted in a violent splash.
Something massive moved under the water—something unseen, something that made even the reeds flee.
The figure dissolved entirely, swept away by a gust that carried no air, no warmth—only the cold scent of the river's deepest places.
The water calmed.
But the silence that followed felt wrong—like the world was holding its breath.
Alok didn't let go of her hand.
"Asma… we need to leave. Now."
She nodded shakily, clutching the cord to her chest.
But as they turned to run back toward the village, Asma caught something in the corner of her eye.
A new carving in the mud.
Fresh.
Deep.
Still glowing faintly.
Not a spiral this time.
A warning.
A symbol shaped like an open eye.
Watching.
Waiting.