2008
The river was quiet the night she forgot who she was.
No storm. No scream.
Only the hush of water slipping over stone, like a secret being kept.
She ran.
Through wet leaves and shattered moonlight. Thorns tore at her legs. Blood slicked her skin. Her breath stuttered. Still, she ran.
Behind her, he followed — not rushing, not shouting — just walking. Steady. Certain.
As if the woods belonged to him.
As if she did, too.
She didn't know where the forest ended. It curved and curled, folding back on itself like a sentence with no full stop. The trees closed in, watching. Listening. Waiting.
Then—she fell.
A sharp root caught her foot. The world tilted. Her body hit the earth with a thud that emptied the air from her lungs. She stayed there, breathless, heart clawing at her ribs.
And that's when she saw it.
The tree.
Older than the others. Split down the center. And carved deep into its bark—words she didn't understand.
A language like shadow.
Amrāt hyānā.
("The river forgets nothing.")
She didn't know the letters.
But somehow… they knew her.
A step behind her. A breath on her neck.
Then— A hand.
A whisper.
The sting of cloth pulled over her mouth.
"You were chosen," he said, voice like smoke.
"You are the message."
And then—Silence.
Only the river kept moving.