The wind swept across the river, carrying with it a faint sound that wasn't there — or perhaps it was only in Anara's memory.
A lullaby.
A few notes, no words.
Her fingers tightened on the rough railing as the sound bloomed in her mind — the rocking cradle, the soft weight of a child in her arms, the firelight dancing on the walls of the small cottage.
The memory was so vivid it felt as if she had stepped back in time.
"He had my eyes," she thought, her voice inside me soft and breaking. "And his father's smile. He was so small when the fever came. Too small to fight."
Her breath trembled.
Her tears fell silently into the water below, rippling outward in widening rings.
I moved closer in her mind, my voice steady though my own throat felt tight.
"They're gone. I know. But the river won't take you to them. It's just cold water. It can only take you away from the world they lived in — from the chance to honor them by staying."
Anara's grip on the rail loosened for a heartbeat, then tightened again.
Her eyes stayed fixed on the black water.
Her thoughts came slow, weary.
"I don't want honor. I just want to stop the emptiness."