The night had grown colder since the rains returned. The river hummed with a strange rhythm, its surface gleaming like liquid glass under a moon half-shrouded by drifting clouds. Asma stood at the edge of the bamboo grove, the old cord wound tight around her wrist. Each time the wind stirred, she swore she could hear whispers rising from the water — soft, uncertain, like words carried through another realm.
It had been three days since Alok had shown her that photograph, and since then, sleep had become a stranger. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the same vision — the river overflowing, letters floating upon its surface, and a pair of hands reaching out from beneath, calling her name.
That evening, as she lit a small oil lamp by her window, she found something strange. Tucked beneath the woven mat on her floor was a small folded paper — yellowed, fragile, and smelling faintly of rain. Her name was written on it in faded ink.
Asma.
Her breath hitched. No one in the village wrote her name like that — not even her grandmother. The loops were elegant, almost old-fashioned, as if penned by someone from another time. Her fingers trembled as she unfolded it.
> "When the river returns what it once took, follow its call, and you shall find what was left undone."
— A.
That was all. Just one line, signed with a single letter. A.
For a long moment, she could only stare. Alok? The thought came instantly, but the handwriting was too refined, too distant — like something written before he was even born.
She went straight to her grandmother's room. The old woman was half-asleep, her scarf slipping from her shoulders. Asma gently shook her.
"Grandma, did you put this under my mat?"
Her grandmother blinked, confused. Then her gaze fell upon the letter, and her expression changed — not with surprise, but with something deeper. Recognition.
"I told you, child," she whispered hoarsely. "The river remembers. Even what we bury beneath our hearts."
"Grandma, what does this mean? Who is A?"
Her grandmother didn't answer immediately. Instead, she looked toward the dark window where the moonlight shimmered faintly on the horizon.
"It means the past is stirring again," she said finally. "And the river isn't done with us yet."
---
The next morning, Alok appeared at her door — drenched, exhausted, and visibly shaken. He held a crumpled piece of parchment in his hand.
"I think you should see this," he said, breathless.
He spread it out on the table. The paper was brittle, written in the same looping script as Asma's letter. It wasn't just one — there were three, all sealed with an ancient symbol: the crouching tiger.
Each letter began the same way:
> To the one who walks where the mist meets the memory…
The words were poetic, haunting, and carried an eerily familiar rhythm. Alok explained that he found them inside an abandoned shrine near the riverbend — one that villagers avoided after sundown. "The place was half-buried in moss," he said. "But these letters were perfectly preserved. As if someone left them there for us."
Asma's pulse quickened. "For us?"
He nodded slowly. "Your name was written on the back of one of them."
They read together, their oil lamp flickering as if reacting to the words.
> "The water remembers the hands that built its banks.
The promise bound in gold and thread still lingers.
When the tiger awakens, the veil between times shall thin.
Seek the lantern of the lost — it burns where no light should."
A strange chill coursed through the room. Alok exhaled shakily. "Lantern of the lost… that sounds like—"
"The old river shrine," Asma interrupted. "The one the floods took ten years ago."
Her grandmother, listening from the corner, closed her eyes. "You shouldn't go there," she warned. "The spirits guard what's theirs."
But curiosity had already taken root, and by the next evening, Asma and Alok found themselves at the water's edge once again.
---
The path was overgrown with weeds, the air thick with the scent of wet earth and something older — something metallic, almost like rusted memories. The moon was a sliver in the sky, but their lantern cast a faint golden glow on the ground.
They followed the curve of the river until they reached the remains of the shrine. What once was a proud stone structure now lay half-submerged, its roof caved in, vines twisting through ancient carvings. A faint hum filled the air — not from insects or wind, but something deeper, almost like the river itself was singing.
Asma stepped closer. Her feet sank into the mud, and the cord around her wrist pulsed faintly, as if alive. "Do you feel that?" she asked.
Alok nodded, gripping his camera. "Yes. It's like… the air's breathing."
They found the base of the shrine, where half-buried stones formed a small altar. Something glimmered faintly inside — a brass object tangled in roots. Alok knelt, brushing away the dirt until its shape became clear. It was an old lantern — dull, but intact, with carvings of waves and tigers around its frame.
"The lantern of the lost…" Asma murmured.
As Alok lifted it, the flame inside flickered to life — on its own.
The light burned with a pale blue glow, soft yet powerful. Shadows danced around them, forming shapes that weren't entirely human. For a heartbeat, Asma saw faces — blurred, watching, whispering. Then the light dimmed, and silence reclaimed the night.
"What… what was that?" Alok whispered.
Asma's heart thundered. "I think the river showed us something. A memory."
Before she could say more, something caught her eye — an object lodged beneath a broken stone. She reached down and pulled it free. It was another letter, sealed in wax. The same emblem — the tiger.
When she opened it, the ink was fresh, as though written just moments ago.
> "To Asma, the keeper of what was found —
Do not fear the water's call. It seeks to return what it once promised. But beware — not all who walk beside you are bound by the same truth."
Her hand trembled as she read the final line aloud. Alok frowned. "What does that mean?"
Before she could answer, the lantern's flame flared again — and for a moment, Alok's shadow vanished from the ground.
Asma froze. "Alok…"
He looked around, confused. "What?"
She pointed to the ground. "Your shadow—it's gone."
He turned slowly toward the river. The blue glow reflected in his eyes, giving them an unnatural sheen. "Maybe," he said softly, "it's already part of the river now."
Then the lantern went dark.
---
When Asma woke the next morning, her hands were still damp, her clothes streaked with mud. The lantern sat on her table, cold and lifeless, yet she remembered bringing nothing home. Alok was gone.
No one in the village had seen him since the night before. His camera was found near the shrine, waterlogged but intact. Inside it, Asma found three photographs — each one showing the river at different times of night. But in the final image, taken moments before the lens had cracked, there was something else.
A figure in the water. Standing. Watching.
And on its wrist, glinting faintly in the moonlight, was the same cord that Asma wore.
Her breath faltered. "No… it can't be…"
She rushed to the riverbank, calling his name again and again. Only the wind answered, carrying fragments of whispers that might have been her imagination — or something else.
Then she saw it. A letter, caught in the reeds.
She pulled it free and unfolded it with trembling fingers. The writing was blurred but readable.
> "Do not mourn me, Asma. The river chose its path long before we met. But I have seen what waits beyond — and it is not the end. The river remembers you."
— A.
Tears welled in her eyes, but as one drop touched the letter, the ink shimmered — and vanished. The paper turned blank, save for a faint outline of the crouching tiger at its corner.
The wind howled suddenly, and the water began to churn. The cord on her wrist grew warm again, pulsing like a heartbeat. She could almost hear a voice beneath the current — his voice.
"Asma… follow the river…"
And deep beneath the surface, something stirred — something ancient, vast, and waiting.
---
To Be Continued...