November 24, 2025 — Cloudy
I didn't start this diary because I thought I was special.
I started it because I was afraid I would forget.
Before that journey, my world felt simple.
People lived. People died.
The dead stayed dead, and the living moved on.
That was the order I trusted.
Mount Kailash didn't seem to change anything—at least, not at first.
We walked the paths.
We listened to chants carried by the thin air.
We bowed, burned incense, and left with sore legs and quiet minds.
That's what I told myself.
The lama didn't agree.
On the last morning, before sunrise, he pressed a small pouch into my hands.
He didn't say what was inside. He only said:
"These were yours long before you knew their names."
I laughed it off.
A souvenir. A blessing. Something symbolic.
I didn't open it.
I should have.
The first voice came later.
Not on the mountain.
Not during a ritual.
Not in silence or darkness.
I was alone, unpacking, when I felt the pouch warm against my palm—
just enough to notice.
Then a voice spoke, close to my ear.
Not loud. Not threatening. Certain.
"You can hear us now."
I froze.
I looked around. No one was there.
The hallway was empty.
The door was locked.
The windows were closed.
My phone lay untouched.
I stood still, waiting for my heart to slow.
For a moment, I almost convinced myself it was a hallucination.
Then another voice.
And another.
Some whispered my name.
Some cried.
Some said nothing at all—
as if they were waiting.
I didn't understand.
I didn't have words for it.
Something had shifted.
Something I hadn't known was possible.
The boundary between the living and the dead hadn't broken.
It had been noticed.
And then, it answered.
I'm writing this now so I don't forget what it felt like.
I don't understand the pouch.
I don't understand the voices.
I only know they've started to respond.