And so I returned, my hands stained with herbs, my feet bound to the earth I knew.
Still, in the quiet chambers of my heart, a pulse beat steadily, refusing to fade:
Perhaps my fate was written somewhere beyond this city's walls.
That night, I could not sleep. The silence of the city pressed too heavily on me, broken only by the sigh of the wind against the shutters. I rose and climbed again to the roof, drawn as always by the stars.
The sky stretched wide and endless, a black ocean scattered with silver fire. For a long time I simply sat there, my knees hugged to my chest, watching the constellations drift slowly above the ridges of the rooftops. They seemed to whisper, though I could not understand their language. Perhaps it was only the wind.
Yet as I stared, something strange caught my eye. The river lay in darkness beyond the walls, but a faint shimmer pulsed along its surface just a flicker, as if moonlight had spilled where no moon was. It vanished in an instant, leaving only the shadowed water.
My heart beat fast, though I told myself it was nothing. A trick of light, perhaps. Still, I could not shake the sense that it had moved, as though the river itself had stirred to glance back at me.
I wrapped my arms tighter around myself. Somewhere deep inside, a thought echoed: that what I longed for, what I dreamed of beyond the city walls, was already reaching back toward me. Watching. Waiting.
When at last I returned to my bed, I lay awake for hours, listening to the stillness. My mother's breathing came steady from the next room, reassuring in its constancy. But beneath it, beneath even the silence of the night, I thought I heard another rhythm slow, ancient, like the beating of a heart hidden beneath the earth and water.
And I wondered, not for the first time, if the stories told by the elders were not merely stories at all.
Morning came draped in mist. The rooftops and narrow alleys blurred beneath a veil of pale gray, as though the city itself wished to remain asleep. I rose quietly, my body heavy from dreams I could not recall, and stepped into the courtyard. The stones were slick with dew, their dampness seeping into the soles of my feet.
My mother was already awake, grinding roots into a dark paste. The rhythmic scrape of stone against stone filled the silence, steady as a heartbeat. She looked up when I entered, her eyes narrowing as if she could read something on my face that I had not yet spoken aloud.
"You should not linger on the roof at night," she murmured. "The air is restless. The river listens."
Her words struck deeper than I expected. I forced a smile and busied myself with small tasks washing the bowls, fetching water but her gaze followed me, sharp and knowing. It was as if she had seen the shimmer too, though she said no more.
Later, as I carried water from the well, I paused. The pail trembled in my hands, though the ground beneath me was still. A hush swept through the street, sudden and unnatural. For a breath, even the sparrows ceased their chatter. I lifted my head, heart racing.
And then it passed. The world returned, full of noise and ordinary motion, neighbors calling out, footsteps echoing along the stones. But within me, the silence lingered, heavy with meaning.