The river lay silent beneath the morning haze, its rippling surface painted in shades of gold and blue. The mist hung low, curling around the reeds like restless spirits reluctant to return to their slumber. Asma stood at the water's edge, her fingers brushing against the charm at her neck — the brass tiger that had once belonged to a promise, a memory, and perhaps something more.
Alok was there again, just as he had been every morning since the day they met. He knelt beside the water, scribbling notes in his worn leather journal, occasionally glancing up at the horizon as though waiting for the river to speak first.
"You're early," Asma said softly, stepping closer. Her reflection wavered beside his in the water, two figures stitched together by curiosity and fate.
He smiled faintly. "The river doesn't wait for anyone. So neither should I."
There was a glint of humor in his voice, but his eyes were distant — fixed on the place where the river curved toward the forest. The trees there seemed older, darker, as if guarding secrets meant to be forgotten.
"Do you ever hear it?" he asked suddenly.
"Hear what?"
"The whispers," he murmured, tilting his head slightly. "When the wind moves through the bamboo, it carries words. Not in a language we speak, but one we feel."
Asma's heart stirred. She had heard them too — faint murmurs in the night, when the world fell silent and even the crickets seemed to listen.
"I thought it was just the wind," she said.
"Maybe it is," Alok replied. "Or maybe it's something older than wind. Something watching us."
The water rippled at that exact moment, as though acknowledging his words. Asma felt a sudden chill despite the warmth of the sun.
She turned her gaze toward the far bank — where a figure stood, half-hidden by the reeds. It was tall, cloaked in white, its face obscured by mist. Her breath caught.
"Alok," she whispered, gripping his arm. "Do you see that?"
He followed her gaze, but when his eyes met the riverbank, the figure was gone. Only the reeds swayed gently, as though moved by unseen hands.
"It's nothing," he said, though his voice lacked conviction. "The mist plays tricks."
But Asma wasn't convinced.
Later that afternoon, when the sky had turned the color of burnished copper, Asma returned to the river alone. The charm around her neck felt warm against her skin. The air carried a strange fragrance — like wildflowers and burnt incense.
She crouched near the water, watching the reflection of clouds drift by. For a moment, her reflection shimmered — and then it wasn't her reflection anymore.
It was the woman from the old photograph.
The same dark eyes, the same cord in her hand. The reflection smiled softly before fading like smoke.
Asma stumbled back, her pulse hammering. "Who are you?" she whispered.
Only the river answered — a low, rhythmic murmur that almost sounded like laughter.
That night, she couldn't sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the reflection — the woman's knowing smile, the way the charm seemed to glow in her hand. Around midnight, she heard a faint tapping sound on her window.
When she looked, she saw Alok standing outside, holding a lantern.
"I couldn't sleep either," he said when she opened the door. "There's something strange near the old ferry ruins. I think you should see it."
The village was silent as they walked toward the river. Fireflies floated between the reeds, glowing like tiny souls lost to the current. The moon hung low, spilling silver light across the water.
When they reached the ferry ruins — an old wooden dock half-buried in mud — Asma saw it. A set of footprints leading into the river. But the strange part was… they glowed faintly, as though lit from within.
"Who could've made those?" she whispered.
"No one human," Alok murmured. "The mud is undisturbed except for the light. It's as if something passed through the surface, not over it."
Asma knelt and touched one of the glowing prints. The moment her fingers met the light, a vision rushed through her — flashes of faces, storms, the sound of a girl crying near the water.
She gasped and fell back, clutching her chest.
"Asma!" Alok caught her by the shoulders. "What did you see?"
"I— I saw her," she stammered. "The woman from the reflection. She was calling someone's name. Over and over."
"What name?"
Asma hesitated. "Alok."
His eyes widened. "That's not possible."
Before she could speak, the water stirred violently. A sudden gust of wind swept through the reeds, and the lantern flickered out. For a few heartbeats, there was only darkness — then a soft light rose from the river itself, a shape forming beneath the surface.
It was the woman again — her form made of water and moonlight, her eyes shimmering like liquid glass. She raised a hand toward Asma, and though she made no sound, Asma heard her voice clearly inside her mind.
"Find me… before the flood returns."
Then, just as suddenly, the vision vanished. The river was still again, silent as stone.
Asma collapsed to her knees, trembling. "Did you see her?"
Alok didn't answer. He stood frozen, his face pale. "That was her. The woman from my research. The one who disappeared seventy years ago."
"What do you mean?"
He reached into his satchel and pulled out an old diary, its pages yellowed and fragile. "This belonged to my great-grandfather. He wrote about a girl by the river — a girl who vanished after a monsoon. Her name was Asma."
The world seemed to tilt around her. The night pressed close, heavy with secrets.
"That can't be," she whispered. "That's my name."
"I know," Alok said softly. "And that's why I came here. To find out why the river remembers you."
A cold wind swept across the water, carrying a faint echo — a woman's laughter mingled with the sound of rushing waves.
The tiger charm burned against Asma's skin.
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To be continued...