Through holy hymns and unseen hands, the path opened—and her soul, long exiled, returned to where it was always meant to be.
~~~~~
The room is quiet, lit only by the soft glow of oil lamps set in each corner.
Ahmaya is sitting cross-legged with her hands on her knees. Beside her, Ayani offers her hand "Relax," she says softly.
Ahmaya takes it without hesitation, grounding herself in that small warmth.
Ayani's father sits before them, his spine straight, his expression solemn. He closes his eyes, and when he speaks, his voice rises, rich and resonant, echoing in the chamber.
"O Lord of Light, keeper of the eternal flame, Guardian of Time's sacred doors—guide this wandering soul to its origin. Let no shadow hinder her journey,Let no chain of flesh bind her spirit. Return her to the hour her soul was born, To the body that remembers her name. Through veils of time, through rivers of light, Let her find the place where she truly belongs."
The air shivers.
Ayani and Ahmaya join in now, chanting the ancient hymns.
Ahmaya had studied them all night. The syllables are old—older than memory, older than language—yet she feels as if she's always known them.
The chamber hums with power. The hymn swells, growing louder, deeper. Ayani's father continues to whisper between verses:
"Let your soul remember where it longs to be.O Lord, guide her across the oceans of time."
Ahmaya feels it—the pull. A loosening. Like threads gently unravelling. Her breath becomes weightless.
Her soul stirs like a bird sensing open sky.
Memories pour in like rain.
Her mother's laughter.
Her father's voice.
The scent of her grandmother's shawl.
The echo of her own footsteps in her home.
The veil is thinning.
"Take her to the time where her soul belongs," chants Ayani's father.
"Take her back to the original body of this soul. May the gates of time open for her light."
Suddenly, Pushpa's body goes silent.
Ayani falters. Her father looks up, startled.
Pushpa's body—once held by Ahmaya's soul—sits still, eyes wide open but unseeing. Her lips no longer move.
"Ayani," her father whispers, "She has crossed over."
"Is… is she in her timeline now?" Ayani asks, voice trembling like a leaf in wind.
"She must be," he says. "Her soul has left this body. Let us guide her. Even if she loses her way, the prayer will call her home."
They begin again, this time softer, steadier—like a lullaby sung to a child lost in a dream.
Beyond, Ahmaya is floating in a world of white. Endless. Quiet. No walls, no sky, no time.
She blinks. "Where… am I?"
She remembers Ayani's father's words from the other day. 'These hymns will guide you across realms.'
With newfound strength, she closes her eyes and chants again. The words emerge from her—not as memory, but as instinct.
Then—agony.
She feel as if thousand of invisible needles pierce her skin. Pain blooms like fire through her chest.
And then—
A gasp.
Her eyes flutter open.
She sees the walls of her grandmother's home.
Ahmaya lifts her hand, stunned by the familiar weight of it. She touches her hair. Her skin.
"Ahmaya… Ahmaya…" her grandma's faint voice calls out. Her hands are warm against Ahmaya's cheeks. This place, this scent, this breath—it's hers again.
Tears blur her vision as she blinks and exhales, whispering, "I….I am back."
In the chamber, far from the world she now breathes in again, Ayani's father finishes the final chant.
"May time carry her gently," he whispers. "And may the world know her return."