Epilogue
The river had no name here.
It wound through the wilderness like a thought too shy to speak, its waters black under the moon's half-lit gaze. On its banks, an old sadhu tended a small fire — no larger than a cupped hand, yet bright enough to turn the mist to gold. His beard fell like a river of ash. His eyes were milky with age, or perhaps with memory.
Children from the nearby village gathered around him as they did each full moon, drawn not by duty but by the pull of his voice. He spoke in no temple's tongue, and his stories obeyed no scripture, yet they carried the taste of something older than either.
"Long ago," he began, stirring the fire with a crooked stick, "when gods still walked the edges of the earth and demons still remembered the sky, there was a boy from the forests. His name was Aadi."
The children leaned forward. They had heard fragments of this tale before — from their grandmothers, from passing monks, from the wind itself — but never the same way twice. That was the trouble with stories: they refused to stay still.
"Aadi was not born to power," the sadhu said. "Nor was he chosen by gods. Yet the chains that held the world began to tremble when his hands brushed the stone beneath the forest floor."
He paused, gazing into the flames as if the boy himself were hidden there. "Some say he broke those chains and set a serpent free. Some say he tried to hold them and was broken in return. Some say he still walks the world, unseen, whispering questions into the ears of those who dare to listen."
A girl no older than ten raised her hand. "Did he win?"
The sadhu smiled — a tired, knowing curve of lips. "That depends on what you mean by winning. The world did not end. The sky did not fall. But neither did the storm sleep. Perhaps winning is not the point."
"Where is he now?" asked another child.
The sadhu looked toward the river, its dark water carrying moonlight and secrets alike. "Some say he lingers between breaths, outside the reach of time. Others believe he became the wind that moves the prayer flags, or the echo that lingers in the hollows of the banyan trees. And there are those," he added softly, "who believe he was never real at all."
The fire snapped. Sparks rose into the night and vanished like fleeting stars.
"Was he real?" the first girl asked, her voice barely a whisper.
The sadhu chuckled, low and deep. "Child, reality is a stubborn thing. It clings to names, to proof. But truth…" — he tapped his chest — "…truth has never cared for such chains. Whether Aadi walked the earth or only the dream, his story walks among us. And as long as it is told, it is."
The wind shifted, carrying the scent of rain and faraway incense. The children huddled closer, the fire casting their faces in flickering light.
"Remember this," the sadhu said, his gaze turning distant. "Every age has its veil. Every heart carries its hunger. And sometimes, when the two meet, a story is born — not of gods or demons, but of what we choose to become."
The river sighed. The fire crackled. The children whispered Aadi's name to one another as if tasting it for the first time.
And above them, the night sky pulsed faintly — once, twice — as though something vast and patient were breathing just beyond the reach of memory.
Was it myth? Was it memory?
The river did not answer. It never does.