They say home is where the heart is, but her heart has always lived elsewhere.
It lived in the smell of paddy fields on a village she have never been to. It lived in the sound of a bustling marketplace in a village whose name she did not know. It lived in the quiet, aching gaze of a man she had never met, yet loved with a familiarity that terrified her.
She was a stranger in her own skin, a protagonist unaware that her current life was merely a quiet interlude between the chapters of a much louder, deeper story—a story that had already ended, yet refused to die.
She was thirsty. A craving that no water could quench, a longing that made her chest feel empty. It was an aching, constant pull toward the unknown, a desperate yearning to find the walls that once held her laughter and the grave that held her past.
She was unaware that the ache was not a sickness, but a memory.
She have yet to find her home. But she is starting to remember the way back.
It's her story. Tamara's, meaning Lotus. A flower which blooms upon the rise of Sun, Surya.