I waited until midnight.
When the village was asleep.
When the dogs had stopped watching the shrine and started howling again—low, uncertain, like they weren't sure what they were mourning.
I didn't pack a bag.
Didn't leave a note.
Just took three things:
The cracked mirror Luang Pho Niran had given me.
The scroll with both our names.
And the needle wrapped in silk, still warm with something that wasn't mine.
---
The banyan tree was already waiting.
The path didn't twist this time.
It opened.
Like it remembered me.
Like it had been chewing on the memory of me and wanted another bite.
The roots glistened with dew that smelled like burnt flowers.
And the air beneath the canopy pulsed.
Alive.
---
She was there again.
The girl.
The not-girl.
This time standing.
Not crying.
Her face almost visible now.
Not fully.
But enough to see eyes like mine.
Lips like mine.
But hollowed. Thinner.
Like a sketch erased too many times.
---
> "I thought you wanted to be freed," I said.
> "Isn't that what all this was about?"
---
She didn't answer.
Not with words.
She just tilted her head and smiled.
And the bark behind her cracked open—like ribs parting.
Revealing something deep inside.
A hollow.
No.
A cradle.
Carved into the trunk.
And inside it… a face.
---
Not hers.
Not mine.
But both.
A blend.
One eye open.
One stitched.
One side young.
One side old.
One side burning.
One side rotting.
---
The bark whispered:
> "The face beneath the bark is not the girl who died."
> "It is the name unspoken."
> "The voice left behind."
> "The breath that makes you you."
---
I stepped closer.
Held up the cracked mirror.
And for a moment—I saw us.
Together.
Overlayed.
Two girls in one skin.
A soul folded over itself.
A vessel straining at the seams.
---
> "You were never supposed to wake," I said.
> "She wasn't supposed to pass you to me."
> "I didn't ask for this."
---
The girl stepped forward.
She touched the mirror too.
And for the first time, I heard her voice—not as a whisper, not as a dream, but clear.
Gentle.
Worn with time.
---
> "I didn't ask to be forgotten."
> "But here we are."
> "You want your name back."
> "I want mine."
---
She turned her back to me.
Revealed the scars on her spine.
Seven vertical cuts.
Still red.
Still bleeding.
And beneath them—another name.
Carved in bark.
Smoothed over with age.
Unreadable.
---
> "Can you say it?" I asked.
---
She shook her head.
> "Names must be given, not taken."
> "Speak it, and it returns to me."
> "Keep it, and it fades with you."
---
I stared at the scroll in my hand.
The red string binding it had turned black.
The ink was running.
The name Anya already half-erased.
Only the second name—Kamala—remained.
My mother's.
Her mother's.
The line that wasn't meant to continue.
---
> "If I speak the name… will I disappear?"
---
> "No," the girl whispered.
> "You will become."
> "And so will I."
---
She pointed to the cradle in the tree.
Where the face was splitting further now—bark cracking, roots pulling apart.
A mouth was forming.
Open.
Hungry.
Waiting.
---
I pulled the needle from my pocket.
Held it between two fingers.
> "I could sew my lips," I said.
> "Seal it forever. Bury the name. Keep it locked."
---
She smiled again.
Not cruel.
Not kind.
Just tired.
> "That's what your mother did."
> "And her mother."
> "That's how it begins again."
---
The cradle split wider.
And the tree sang.
A low hum.
A harmony of every name ever buried here.
Every girl whose breath was stolen and given to another.
---
I stepped forward.
Placed the mirror inside the hollow.
Laid the scroll beside it.
Then, slowly, carefully—
I spoke the name.
Not mine.
Hers.
---
> "Mayura."
---
It cut.
My throat burned.
My lips bled.
But the moment I spoke it, the cradle in the tree bloomed open—and from it, light.
Not white.
Not holy.
But true.
A red-gold glow that smelled of memory and rain.
The face dissolved.
The roots tightened.
The bark began to close again.
And the girl—
She wept.
---
But this time, not out of grief.
Out of release.
---
> "Thank you," she said.
> "Now you can breathe without stealing."
> "And I can sleep without silence."
---
She stepped backward into the tree.
Into herself.
And as she vanished, I saw the mirrors in Nok's hut cracking—one by one—until only mine remained.
Intact.
Unbroken.
Clear.
---
I stood there for a long time.
The banyan silent.
Still.
No whispers.
No breath.
Just peace.
---
When I walked back into the village, the shrine had crumbled.
Its teeth scattered like rice.
The dogs had stopped howling.
And Uncle Prem was lighting incense at the temple again—his hand steady.
He looked up as I passed.
> "You look taller," he said softly.
> "Like someone who's finally wearing the right name."
---
I smiled.
Not as Anya.
Not as Mayura.
But as both.
Whole.