The second night of the festival ended more quietly than the first. The laughter thinned, the drums softened, and the glow of lanterns dimmed one by one as families returned to their homes. Asoka walked back alone, her steps slow, her thoughts still stirred by the day's noise and color. The air carried the faint scent of ash and crushed herbs, burnt meat, and somewhere far behind her, a last voice sang before falling into silence.
She bolted her door and set her baskets aside, the day had been long and consuming, she thought of Eliza, wondering if she had found her way home or maybe still enchanted by whatever Emberwake had offered. The house felt small after the open square, its shadows deep and familiar. She washed her hands, loosened her hair, and changed into a cloth for the night, intending to sleep quickly and rise early, as she always did.
She had just settled onto her mat when she heard it.
Her name.
Soft. Drawn out. Almost mistaken for the wind.
She sat upright, listening. The house was still. No footsteps. No knock. Only the distant hum of insects beyond the walls.
Again—her name.
This time, it came from farther away.
From the forest.
Asoka stood without fully deciding to do so. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and stepped outside. The night air was cool, it had almost covered her face with her dark hair and brushing her skin like a reminder she could not place. The path toward the forest lay open, pale beneath the full moon, and without thinking further, she followed it.
The trees welcomed her as they always had—quiet, unmoving, ancient. Crickets sang. Leaves whispered. The deeper she went, the more the world seemed to soften, as though sound itself had learned to tread lightly.
She reached the layered rocks without effort, though she could not later remember the path she took to get there.
The statues stood as they always had—moss-covered, worn smooth by time, their shapes half-lost to memory. Faces without names. Forms without stories. As a child, she had feared them. As a woman, she barely spared them thought.
And then a song was heard..
It was faint at first. A low hum, barely separate from the forest's breath. Then it grew—layered voices, weaving together in a rhythm that did not ask to be understood. Some sounds were sharp, others rounded, none belonging to any tongue she knew.
Yet they felt familiar.
The song did not call her closer, and still she moved. It did not frighten her, and still her heart beat faster. The night seemed to gather around the sound, insects quieting, wind stilled, as though listening.
She realized, dimly, that she was barefoot.
The earth was cool beneath her feet. The moss damp. The air alive.
She could not tell how long she stood there. Time had loosened its hold. The song rose and fell, sometimes joyful, sometimes sorrowful, sometimes neither. It was as though the night itself had found a voice.
And then—
Silence.
Asoka blinked.
She was in her room.
Moonlight spilled across the floor exactly as it had before. Her shawl lay folded beside her mat. The door was bolted. Her feet were clean.
Yet her skin still carried the memory of the breeze.
Her ears still rang with the echo of unheard words.
She lay back slowly, staring at the ceiling, unsure whether to laugh or pray or do nothing at all. The sound faded the way wind does—leaving no shape behind, only the knowledge that it had passed through.
Sleep came gently after that.
By morning, the memory had thinned. The details slipped away like mist, leaving only a feeling—light, fleeting, impossible to name.
And then the day began again.