The laughter faded into the hum of rain.
Days stretched thin after that, one folding into another. The storms came and went, leaving the earth heavy with water and silence. Tyre went on pretending it was just weather that the swollen river would shrink, that the whispers at night were only wind.
But Evelyn felt it. The change. The same way a bird feels the pressure before lightning splits the sky.
The air carried a weight now. Things broke differently bread turned stale faster, milk soured before sunrise, dogs barked at corners where there was nothing to bark at.
At the market, people spoke softer these days. Eyes lingered too long on empty alleys.
"It's the humidity," said Old Mara, swatting flies off her fish stall.
"Humidity doesn't turn the well water black," the blacksmith grunted. "It's been tasting like metal for a week."
"Then clean your bucket."
"The bucket's fine. Something's wrong with the town."
Evelyn didn't stay to listen. Her basket was half full, her heart twice as heavy. Every conversation now circled the same invisible fear, and though no one said his name, she knew who they meant.
When she reached home, the door was open.
"Damian?" she called softly.
No answer. Just the slow dripping of rain from the roof and the faint scent of wet ash.
She stepped inside. Her son sat at the table, his back to her, shoulders hunched over a wooden toy horse. The same one that had cracked in half last week.
"You left the door open again," Evelyn said.
"It's too quiet when it's closed," he replied, voice low, thoughtful.
She froze mid-step. The toy was whole again. Not glued. Not patched. Whole as if it had never broken.
"Damian… when did you fix that?"
"I didn't fix it." He looked up at her. His eyes reflected the dim candlelight, too still, too deep. "I just thought about how it should be. Then it was."
The floor creaked under her feet.
"You mean you repaired it?"
He shook his head. "No tools. No glue. It just… changed. Like it listened."
Evelyn sat across from him, forcing calm into her voice. "That's not something you tell people; do you understand me?"
"Why not?"
"Because people here don't like strange things. They'll think you're cursed."
He didn't argue. He just watched his hands, the same hands that once trembled at thunder, now still as stone.
Outside, the storm deepened. The windows rattled. A dog howled somewhere down the road, then another, until it felt like the whole town was calling to something unseen.
"They're scared," Damian whispered.
"Who?"
"The dogs. The river's rising again."
Evelyn stood and pulled her shawl tighter. "It's just rain, Damian."
"No," he said quietly. "It's coming from under."
A crack of thunder silenced them both. Then, through the open door, came a sound that wasn't thunder at all, a deep groan, like the earth shifting in its sleep.
The lamp flickered, guttered, and went out.
"Damian!" she cried.
"Don't move, Mama."
In the grey, something pulsed a faint silver glow from his palms, flickering like a heartbeat. The air hummed, and for a moment, the walls themselves seemed to breathe.
Then it was gone.
The lamp flared back to life, and Damian was staring at his hands, pale and trembling.
"I didn't mean to," he whispered. "It just happens when I'm scared."
Evelyn crossed the room, gripping his shoulders. "Listen to me you don't tell anyone about this. Not the priest. Not Mara. Not anyone. Promise me."
He nodded. "I promise."
But outside, the grey cloud carried whispers through the valley voices too faint to name, too many to count. And from the riverbank, something old and patient stirred beneath the floodwater, listening to the boy who could make the world question its existence.
Father Tomas watched him that afternoon by the church well, after he the incident at home. Damian had his hands in the water, eyes unfocused. The surface should have rippled but it didn't.
The priest frowned. Not even the faintest tremor. The water stood perfectly still, like a mirror holding its breath.
"Damian," he called softly. "You'll catch cold."
Damian blinked and withdrew his hand. The moment his fingers broke contact, the surface rippled again small rings spreading outward as if the well had just remembered how to move.
"I was listening," Damian said quietly.
"To what?"
"The river."
Father Tomas stepped closer, the wood of his cane tapping the stones. "And what did it say?"
"That it remembers me."
The priest paused. The boy's tone was steady, but the words were wrong in a child's mouth too certain, too archaic.
"The river remembers everyone," Tomas said finally. "It keeps what we forget."
Damian shook his head slowly. "No. It remembers me."
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. Only the wind stirred heavy with the scent of wet earth and rain-soaked pine.
Tomas's hand tightened around his prayer beads. "You've been spending too much time near the banks, boy. The water's risen too high this season. You shouldn't,"
"It talks louder there," Damian interrupted. His gaze had gone distant again. "Sometimes I think it wants to come closer."
The priest's pulse quickened. "Damian?"
"Do you hear it too, Father?"
Tomas stepped back. "No. And neither should you."
Damian lowered his eyes, murmured something the priest couldn't catch, and turned to leave. But as he walked away, the water in the well shuddered violently this time before bursting upward in a cold, silver spray.
The old priest stumbled back, whispering a prayer.
By the time he looked again, Damian was gone.
That evening, the priest came to the Vale cottage under the pretense of sharing tea. Rain had thinned to a drizzle. The hills were smoke-blue and low.
Evelyn poured from the kettle, her hands steady only because she forced them to be.
"I know why you're here," she said before he could sit. "The town's talking again."
"They're frightened," Tomas admitted. "But gossip isn't what worries me."
Evelyn met his eyes. "Then what does?"
He hesitated. The fire popped. Outside, a crow cried once and went silent.
"I saw him at the well today. The water… stopped moving."
Her breath caught. "He's just a boy, Father."
"He's something," Tomas said quietly. "And whatever it is, he can't stay hidden forever."
Evelyn turned from him, watching Damian through the small window. Damian sat by the woodpile, tracing circles in the mud with a stick, murmuring to himself.
"He saved my life the day he was born," she said at last. "If the river wants him back, it'll have to come through me."
The priest rose. His voice was gentle, but the words carried weight.
"Faith won't stop the river, Evelyn. And some debts can't be bargained."
She didn't answer. She only closed the window latch and drew the curtain.
Later, when the cottage was quiet, Evelyn sat alone by the dying fire. The flames had sunk to a red heart. Rain tapped the roof in slow, measured beats.
She took a piece of paper from the drawer and began to write by candlelight, half a letter, half a prayer.
"If anyone finds this, take him to Asterion. There are schools there, people who can teach him to be ordinary. Tell them he's kind. Tell them he dreams of rivers but does not belong to them."
She folded the note, slipped it beneath the floorboard under the hearth, and pressed her palm to the warm wood.
"I won't lose you," she whispered to the quiet house. "Not again."
The rain eased to a mist that night, and as always when storms broke, the tavern filled.
It wasn't much four tables, a hearth, the smell of wet boots and bitter ale but in Tyre, it was where fear went to dress itself as talk.
Marta, the baker, sat near the fire wringing her apron, voice low.
"I saw him by the well today. Just standing there. Not moving, not blinking."
The blacksmith snorted. "Children stare at puddles, Marta. He's not the first."
"Puddles don't stop moving when you look at them," she snapped. "The water went still, I swear it did."
A few heads turned. Old Bram, who'd seen too many winters, spat into the hearth. "You people forget. That boy came from the river. It swallowed him once and spat him back. Nothing good comes up from a river that deep."
Silence settled, thick and smoky.
The innkeeper cleared his throat. "You'll drive the mother out with talk like that. She's a good woman."
"Aye," Bram said, "and good women die same as bad when gods start collecting their debts."
Father Tomas passed the window then, cloak drawn tight, and the room fell quieter still. Even the fire seemed to shrink.
"Priest has been visiting her house more often," Marta murmured. "If he's worried, we should be too."
The blacksmith leaned back, uneasy. "So, what do you want us to do? Tell the mayor? Burn the cottage?"
"No," Marta said, and for once her voice was soft. "Just pray it isn't us the river remembers next."
The door swung open a gust of wet wind, a brief flash of thunder then shut again, leaving the room heavy with the scent of smoke and dread.
The mayor's hands trembled as he read the spy letter again. The ink had run in places, the words bleeding into each other.
He's changing, Tomas says. The river listens to him now.
He folded the page carefully and set it aside. The room smelled of damp paper and old smoke. Behind him, the others gathered their coats dripping, their eyes avoiding his.
One of them spoke first.
"The books changed again. The debt records. Three times this week."
"I know," the mayor said quietly. "I've seen them. The sums don't match. They... rewrite themselves."
Another voice, female, sharp: "And the river?"
"It's risen two feet since morning," someone answered. "No reason for it. The dam readings make no sense."
The mayor looked toward the fog-streaked window. Beyond it, lightning flashed and for a heartbeat, the reflection in the glass wasn't his. It was a boy's face. Pale eyes. Still as water.
He turned away.
"Do you know what Evelyn's son told Father Tomas?"
No one replied.
"He said the river remembers him."
A silence settled deep, heavy, almost reverent.
The man nearest the window finally spoke. "And you think he's causing this?"
The mayor's voice broke into something between fear and belief.
"I think he's the answer to it."
Thunder cracked overhead. The lamp flickered, then died.
In the dark, someone whispered, "Then God help Tyre."
Another voice sounded in the room rough and uncertain.
"The payment's been sent, but the numbers don't add up again."
Another spoke from the dark corner. "They never do. It's as if something's changing them after the books are closed."
The lamp flickered, no one moved. The mayor leaned forward. "It isn't something," he said. "It's someone." Silence engulfed the room; it was as if the darkness grew eyes and the tension in the room brewed. A chair creaked.
"Who?" one finally asked.
The mayor's eyes dropped to the wet map spread before him, Tyre and its edges, the dam like a scar running through its heart.
"Whoever's still beneath the water." The lamp hissed, dimmed, then steadied again. The sound of rain grew louder, hammering the roof in uneven rhythm, almost like a pulse.
Another voice broke the quiet.
"The townsfolk have been… uneasy. Lights under the lake. Vibrations through the ground. My boy says the dogs won't drink from the well anymore."
The mayor closed his eyes for a moment.
"They're not wrong to be afraid."
He rose and crossed to the window. Beyond the glass, the fog swallowed everything. Only the dam lights glimmered in the distance; pale, trembling, as if afraid to stay lit.
"You know what they buried there," he said.
No one answered, they didn't need to. He turned back to them, his shadow stretching long across the floorboards.
"The debts will keep climbing. The books will keep rewriting. Because that place… that thing… was never meant to sleep."
The lamp went out.
For a long moment, the only sound was the rain, steady and deep like something vast breathing below the earth.