The morning after her encounter with Alok, the river seemed… alive. Its usual calm had shifted into a quiet murmur, faint yet deliberate, as if the water itself were trying to speak.
Asma walked along the muddy bank, the cord secured around her wrist. The tiger charm glimmered weakly in the early light, half-hidden by her sleeve. With every step, she felt a strange pull, a heaviness in her chest—as though the earth remembered something she didn't.
Alok was already there, near the edge of the bamboo grove, scribbling in his notebook, his eyes flicking between the water and the village. His camera hung loosely around his neck, lens fogged by the morning mist.
"You came early," he said without looking up.
"I couldn't sleep," Asma admitted. "It was calling again."
"Calling?" Alok finally looked at her, brow furrowed.
"In my dreams… I heard my name," she whispered. "The same voice as yesterday… soft, like part of the wind."
He studied her for a moment, then nodded thoughtfully. "Dreams are one way the river speaks. At least, that's what some old texts suggest."
"What texts?"
From his bag, he pulled a worn leather-bound notebook. Its pages were filled with Assamese script, sketches, and faded maps. "Records from the 1890s," he explained. "Folklorists studying the Brahmaputra believed certain stretches had… memory currents. Places where emotion, loss, and promises lingered."
"Memory currents?" Asma repeated.
"Yes. If someone dies with an unfulfilled promise near such a current, the river holds onto it—sometimes until the promise is fulfilled."
Her fingers tightened around the cord. "You think this belongs to one of those promises?"
Alok's eyes flickered to the charm. "It could be. But it's strange it came back now. Something must have disturbed the river."
They stood in silence, listening to the soft murmur of water and the distant calls of waking birds.
Then, faintly, Asma heard it again.
A whisper.
From the river's edge, just below the reeds. Soft. Almost human.
Her breath caught. "Did you hear that?"
Alok shook his head. "Hear what?"
She knelt by the water, the hem of her dress soaking in mud. The voice came again, clearer this time. A single word.
"Return…"
A chill ran down her spine. She looked at Alok, but his puzzled expression confirmed he heard nothing.
"It said… return," she murmured.
Alok crouched beside her. "Return what?"
"I don't know," she admitted. "But it sounded… like someone waiting."
He dipped a hand in the water. "Temperature's normal. No unusual flow. It's just water."
Yet Asma could see it—the faint shimmer beneath the surface, like threads of light weaving through the current. For a brief moment, she thought she saw a shadowy face, gone as quickly as it appeared.
That night, the whispers followed her home.
Every time the wind shifted through the bamboo grove, she thought she heard her name. Moonlight turned the river silver, and the charm on her wrist pulsed faintly in the gleam.
Her grandmother noticed.
"You've been restless," the old woman said, placing a bowl of rice and curry in front of her. "The river has taken a liking to you."
Asma forced a smile. "You make it sound like a person."
"Perhaps it is," her grandmother replied, eyes clouded but sharp. "When I was your age, I too thought it was just water. Then it took something from me. Now… maybe it returns through you."
"What did it take?"
The old woman's lips curved into a sad smile. "A promise I couldn't keep."
That was all.
Later, after her grandmother went to bed, Asma sat outside, staring at the river. Fireflies danced across the fields, and the night air buzzed softly. Upstream, a faint glimmer shone, like light reflecting off metal.
She followed it.
The narrow path was slippery beneath her bare feet. The glow grew brighter until she reached a bend she had never noticed before. Half-buried in the silt, something shone.
A brass trinket—a ring, tarnished but glinting under the moon. It bore the same tiger motif as the charm.
Her pulse quickened.
Behind her, a twig snapped.
She spun—but saw only shadows. Then a voice spoke from the darkness.
"You shouldn't be here."
It was Alok.
He stepped into moonlight, eyes wide with awe and concern. "You followed the river too?"
"I saw something glowing," she said, holding out the ring. "It looks like the cord's charm."
He examined it under his flashlight. "Same artisan. But older—decades older."
"So it's connected," she breathed.
"Everything is," Alok murmured. "The ring, the cord, the whispers. Pieces of a story the river is trying to tell."
They stared at the water. The current shifted, and a ripple of light moved across the surface—twisting like words in a language neither knew. Then, just as suddenly, it faded.
Asma's hands trembled. "What did it say?"
"I don't know," Alok admitted. "But I think… it wants us to remember."
That night, sleep refused to come. The whispers were louder, rhythmic. In dreams, she saw flashes—memories that weren't hers:
A boy by the river, weaving a cord.
A girl laughing, promising to wait.
A storm rising.
The river swelling.
Then silence.
When she woke, the tiger charm burned faintly against her skin.
The next morning, she met Alok again near the same spot. He looked exhausted but alert.
"I've been thinking," he said. "That ring might not have surfaced naturally. The current here doesn't bring things up from the silt unless…"
"Unless what?"
"Unless someone—or something—wants it found."
He hesitated. "Legends mention a ritual. A bond between the living and the river's memory. Trace it, and we might understand why these objects are resurfacing."
"A ritual?"
"Yes. Performed by those who lost someone to the river. They offered a cord, a ring, a token… believing the river could carry their message to the other side."
Her mind spun. "You think my grandmother was part of that?"
"Maybe," Alok said softly. "And maybe the river kept her promise alive."
Asma gazed at the flowing water. Sunlight reflected like shards of broken glass. Somewhere deep beneath, secrets stirred.
"What happens if the river remembers everything?" she asked.
Alok looked at her gravely. "Then it might not let go."
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of rain. Far upstream, thunder rumbled faintly. The monsoon was returning—and with it, the river's moods.
Asma felt it in her bones: whatever story the river was telling had only begun.
She looked at Alok. "Then we have to find out what it wants."
He nodded. "Before it finds us first."
And somewhere, beneath the silver waves, the river stirred again, whispering secrets only she could hear. Shadows shifted strangely along the bank, as if unseen eyes were watching, waiting for the next move.
A sudden chill ran through the bamboo grove, and a faint voice whispered once more, so soft that it could have been the wind—or something else entirely:
"Asma…"
Her heart skipped. The adventure, the mystery, the river's secrets—they were just beginning.