She settled into a perfect seiza posture before the ancient Buddha idol, her back straight, her eyes drifting shut like petals folding at dusk. A thin current of incense smoke brushed against her cheeks, softening her expression. Then she lifted one hand and beckoned him gently.
"Come. Sit here," she murmured, pointing to a spot beside her.
He approached, but before he could lower himself, her palm lifted, stopping him mid-movement.
"Wait."
Her other hand slowly extended toward the shadows on her right. The air shivered. Something shifted within the darkness, a fabric rustling without wind. A half-rotted meditation mat, curled like a old scroll, slid across the stone floor. It floated into her grasp as though pulled by invisible threads. Without touching it, she rotated her wrist; the mat unfurled smoothly, landing before him.
She had been a wandering soul when he first met her in pale, uncertain, drifting between form and formlessness. But now, clothed in moonlit robes, shaped like a celestial maiden sculpted out of silver dusk, she seemed like a being from higher realms.
He sat down quietly.
Her voice softened, warmed by the incense haze. "This," she said, touching the stone pedestal beneath the idol, "is the Great Benevolent Buddha. He mastered the pathways of the body and the depths of the mind, rising beyond illusion. Through breath, discipline, and clarity, he uncovered the truth that guides all beings"
The boy bowed his head. "So he was the first one… the first to awaken, the first to see the truth clearly. Please accept my respect." He folded his hands and bent forward deeply.
When he lifted his head again, questions tugged at him. "Do you know… where he came from? Or who he was before all this?"
She opened her eyes slightly, gaze steady on the idol. "I do not know," she said. "I never saw his beginning. Never asked anyone. My birth… or what counts as my birth… was not in that era. What I know he simply arrived and carved new paths into existence."
"I see…" he whispered. "Then what about Mara?"
A faint anger touched her lips. "So you've heard his name also."
"Not much," he admitted, scratching his head. "Just fragments. Stories people whisper."
"If you wish," she said, "I can tell about them." He shook his head. "No need. when I return to the human lands, I'll ask them."
Her smile deepened. She resumed her prayer.
He watched as she lifted a mala of dull wooden beads. Each bead glowed faintly as her fingers brushed it. The sound of her breath and the soft clicking of the mala blended with the incense smoke, forming a quiet rhythm in the dim chamber.
He stayed silent. The Buddha's silhouette loomed above him.
Time passed unmeasured.
Then he heard a long, trembling inhale behind him.
He turned.
Her eyelids lifted halfway, revealing a strange clarity. "I don't have much time left, little boy." The words came slowly, as if weighed down. "Today is my final day. After this, I will finally be free from this illusion of life."
His stomach tightened. "Free… I don't truly understand the meaning," he said softly. "But congratulations. You're going to break the bindings in your own way." She stared at him in confusion. "Why do you congratulate me? Isn't death painful? Doesn't death erase everything? Your deeds, your memories, your struggles, all gone."
He let out a breath, his gaze drifting to the flickering moonlight. "Yes, it's true. Death erases much. It wounds those who stay behind… But humans die every day, in small ways. When they sleep, they enter a little death, shutting their senses, leaving their bodies adrift. Maybe… maybe death isn't something to fear if we already meet pieces of it every night."
Her eyes lingered on him, searching, as though weighing his words, measuring whether they were naïve or strangely wise. After a moment, she turned her face back to the idol. The moonlight through the stone opening dimmed suddenly, as if a cloud had crossed the sky outside. The crystal leaves of the tree lost their earlier brilliance, turning ghostly pale.
The boy rested his elbows on his knees, fingers interlocked loosely, eyes half-lowered as though speaking from a place deeper than his age.
"When I stayed in that village," he said slowly, "I learned something… Death is the greatest truth in all of life. Even creation isn't equal to it. But then, one day, I watched a child being born, sickly, fragile, crying, demonic, before it even touched the air. And I wondered… If creation never happened, how would death even exist?"
His voice echoed lightly against the stone walls, carried by drifting incense smoke.
"I doubted myself for a while," he continued, "but I realized something else. Creation and death… both are beautiful in their own way. Death has no caste, no gender, no preference. It holds no grudges. Sometimes it's more beautiful than birth. Sometimes it's cruel, snatching memory until you're nothing but a hollow shell."
A faint, tired smile touched the corner of his mouth. "And besides… I never saw a good birth in that place. So I can't say anything nice about it." She gave him a soft, amused look, her lips curling just slightly. "What a frail, skinny boy," she teased, "speaking of death as if you've faced it dozens of times."
He snorted. "And you're talking like someone who has embraced it." She laughed lightly. "Haven't I? That face outside… didn't he say I'm a reincarnator?" He blinked, tilting his head. "Rein—… reinca—… what is that?" he stuttered dramatically.
She narrowed her eyes. "Don't do that again."
He raised his hands defensively. "Fine, fine. What is a… reinka-whatever?"
"A reincarnator," she corrected, folding her arms, "is someone who's born again and again… and remembers all their memories of previous lives."
He thought for a moment, eyes widening slightly. "Then… how many times have you died?"
"Six," she replied calmly. "And in your journey, you'll probably meet others like me. Some more powerful… some stranger than you can imagine." He leaned back, a grin creeping onto his face.
"So your age number is Six."
She frowned. "My… age number? What absurd thing is that?"
He pointed at her proudly. "A person who can remember how many times they've been born, that's their age number. Yours is six." She gave him a helpless smile. "You really know how to twist words, don't you?"
"It's the truth," he said smugly. "Next life, learn a dictionary first."
At that, she went silent, returning to her prayer with a tiny huff. He watched the rays of moonlight drift through the cave, thin bands of silver sliding across the crystal-leafed tree. The shifting glow made the cavern feel alive, breathing with every flicker.
She recited her mantra in whispering tones, and for a while, neither of them spoke. Then, without warning, she broke the silence. "Tell me… have you truly stopped fearing death?"
He didn't turn to her immediately. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed on the idol's serene, unmoving face. "Didn't I tell you already?" he muttered. "I stopped fearing death long ago… back in that place."
She shifted slightly, her robes brushing against the stone. "But what if one day, death comes for something you care about?" she asked softly. "Suppose you have a family… and you can't protect them. What then?"
He shrugged. "Then I won't have a family. I'll stay by myself, build a small tomb for me alone, and someday I'll crawl into it and die slowly."
She frowned with genuine concern. "That would be more painful than you think."
"Really?" He stretched his legs and yawned. "Then I'll just take another path. I'll think of something."
She stared at him for a long, unreadable moment, then turned toward the Buddha idol again.
Her voice lowered. "If death is so great in your eyes," she said, "then tell me… when it comes, why does it not announce itself? Why doesn't it tell us when, how, or from which path? Every other action in the world gives warning, rain shows its clouds, fire its sparks, anger its breath. Yet death arrives silently."
He rubbed his chin, eyes squinting mischievously. "Oh, that's easy."
"Is it?" she challenged.
"Of course." He puffed out his cheeks childishly. "It's because… death doesn't know itself."
She blinked once. "What?"
"If death understood itself," he said proudly, "it would have died from its own death long ago."
A beat of stunned silence. Then she burst into laughter—a warm, ringing sound that echoed through the cave, bouncing against the stone and stirring the incense smoke. The boy laughed too, clutching his stomach until both of them were breathless. Their laughter felt strangely bright in the dark chamber, like two tiny flames flickering stubbornly in a world full of shadows.
The tree's crystal leaves chimed softly as if responding. Moonlight thickened, almost liquid, pouring down the walls.
Gradually their laughter faded.
She wiped a small tear from the corner of her eye. "You're… truly unbelievable," she whispered with a lingering smile.
"And you're too serious," he replied, poking at the ground.
The boy exhaled softly, leaning back on his palms as the moonlit cave breathed around them.
"You know," he said at last, "you might be born again someday… maybe into a place you truly cherish. Or into a life where you finally belong."
She listened quietly, her face half-lit by the wandering moonbeam.
"Think of life like a strand of hair," he continued. "One end is rooted - birth. The other is free - death, just like you said. Between them is the long strand… our life. Wind tugs at it, blades cut it, time frays it. Some strands survive long, some fall early. That's life choosing someone, and forfeiting someone else."
Her lips curved faintly. "What an interesting vision you have… for someone raised in such a small world."
He shrugged, eyes shining with quiet stubbornness. "Maybe. But listen - after death, when you're born again, who knows where you'll land? Maybe a poor family, maybe a powerful lineage. Maybe you'll meet people who change your fate… or maybe you'll sleep in darkness for a thousand years, and it'll pass like a blink with respect of everyone."
A thin breeze drifted through the cavern's hollow, stirring the ash of incense.
"Miss," he added gently, "time only matters when we measure it. From another view, it means nothing, had no value. So why fear death? If you didn't enjoy this life… then maybe the next one will be better. And if not, then the one after that. And again after that… until—"
He paused. She leaned slightly forward, curious. "Until… what?"
"I don't really know," he admitted. "Maybe until someone reaches… someone like him."
They both turned toward the serene Buddha idol, its stone surface glowing faintly under the moon's pale reflection.
She breathed out softly. "That's… fair enough." Then she bowed once, deeply, and when she rose, her voice had lightened. "I feel a bit clearer now. Are you ready to hear my story?"
"Why not?" he said with a grin. "I've been waiting long enough."
She kept her eyes on the idol while she began speaking.
"A very, very long time ago…" she murmured, "so long that even time itself must've forgotten whether I was alive or dead… I was human. Just like you."
"I lived somewhere near your lands. Or perhaps far. Distances blur when centuries pass." Her fingers touched the beads gently, rhythmically. "I had no parents. No memory of who raised me from birth. I only know after I must have been around eighteen… because that was when youth truly reached me, and everything began."
She paused, closing her eyes as if pulling something from a deep well. "At that time, I lived with a man. Not my father, just someone who took me in. He was a priest of a temple dedicated to the Great Benevolent Buddha. But he wasn't a monk."
A sad smile touched her lips. "People asked him that often. 'Why don't you become a monk,' they'd say, 'when you already live like one?' And he always answered with the same thing. He'd say:
'Buddha means Bodhi—knowledge. It lives in everything we see, everything we touch. Anyone can find it if they steady their mind, if they focus their eyes, their breath, their soul… even on the tip of their finger. So why trouble Buddha with daily prayers for my sake? He has far greater work to do. I don't need to become a monk to follow his path.'"
Her voice carried the man's tone.
"He was strange," she continued softly. "Strange, but wise. The temple wasn't grand, just stone pillars covered in moss, a cracked bell, and a statue that leaned a little too far forward. But it was peaceful."
The boy imagined it, mist surrounding the worn stone steps, cold dew gathering on old wooden floors, the smell of incense mixed with wet earth.
She drew a long breath, as though the air carried the dust of memories she had tried to bury.
"In those days," she began softly, "people laughed at us. Sometimes cruelly. Sometimes out of ignorance. They mocked my father, who raised me. Some even kicked him down the stone steps near the temple, as if he were a madman chasing illusions."
Her voice quivered, but only for a heartbeat.
"He would leave for a while… disappear into the forest or mountains when the scorn grew too heavy. But he always returned. He crawled back every time." Her fingers tightened slightly on the beads. "He crawled, because pride meant nothing to him. The temple mattered. His path mattered."
"When he returned," she continued, "he'd take my hand and tell me, 'Come, little one. We'll go ask for alms again.' And we'd walk into the village together. People would point and laugh.
'Why beg when you have hands and feet to work with?'
'You're not even a monk,' they'd say, pushing him away."
She smiled faintly, bitterly.
"And he would always answer, calm as ever:
'Begging does not mean poverty. Begging means acceptance. It keeps our desires under control. And besides, why complain? You get good karma by giving, and we get the burden of your sins. Why not thank us?'"
A short, shaky laugh escaped her.
"After hearing that, people stopped giving him food. They would say, 'You're no monk. You can't take away anyone's sins.' They made fun of him.
But the funny thing is…"
Her eyes softened warmly.
"They would still slip him food later. Leave it by the roadside. Pretend they didn't. They just didn't want to lose face. They respected him deeply, even while teasing him."
"Because he was everything they were not," she whispered. "A doctor, a teacher, someone who healed their children without asking for anything. Someone who could look through them, see their pain and greed like transparent glass."
She let the silence settle before continuing.
"In time, I started accompanying him. Sometimes begging, sometimes helping in the small garden behind the temple. Praying… learning… and slowly, I became the first woman in our region to follow the Buddha Path."
"We lived simply. We laughed easily. We had little, but we weren't unhappy."
Her face darkened.
"And then, one day, a wealthy merchant accused one of our monks of stealing a pouch of silver. I cannot remember that monk's name anymore… that's how long it has been. But I know this, he never stole. He had never even stepped into the merchant's estate. None of us had. If we approached that place, the guards kicked us away like stray dogs."
She inhaled sharply, old anger threading through her breath.
"But rumours spread faster than truth. The villagers began avoiding us. Doors shut when we walked by. Some people threw hot rice water at us. Others tossed stones. Food became scarce. We survived on leaves, bark, and tree roots."
Her voice dropped. "We stopped going down into the village after a while."
For a moment the cave felt colder, as if the past's frost spilled into it. "Then came the night," she whispered, "when everything shattered."
The boy leaned in unconsciously on his hands.
"The merchant's soldiers stormed our small monastery. They dragged out the monk who had been accused. We tried to fight them… but we were shoved back by the villagers themselves."
Her throat tightened. "They beat him. Right there. Under the old Bodhi tree." Her eyes dimmed as though she were watching it all again. "They beat him until his breath stilled."
"And… nobody helped?"
She whispered. "Not one voice rose. Not one hand reached out. They watched. Some cried quietly. Some looked away. But none stepped forward."
The incense flickered beside them, smoke twisting into shapes like broken souls.
"And before that monk died," she added, "he cursed them.
He said: 'A great calamity will fall upon this land. A flood shall sweep through. No child shall be born here. No crop will grow. This place will become a valley of death.'"
Her fingers brushed the cave floor, tracing invisible memories.
"We burned his body the next morning. Then we bowed to the earth and set out again. But not in that same village, we went to surrounding mountains. We worked in fields, carried water, tended gardens. Anything to survive… because we refused to stray from our path."
Her voice softened. "But some among us wished for silence rather than struggle. They stayed on the mountains, seeking seclusion. Seeking the truth without the noise of human cruelty."
"They remained with us. Kind people. Kind faces. My family, in the truest sense."
She smiled faintly, though sorrow seeped through it.
"Time passed… and people forgot the monk's curse. They laughed at it. Ignored it."
Her gaze grew distant.
"And then… the flood came."
Thunder seemed to echo faintly in the mountain as she said it.
"It tore through the village, through the fields, through the merchant's mansion… snatching away almost everyone. The survivors climbed up to our mountain, starving, trembling."
The boy asked softly in this time, "Did you let them in?"
"At first, some monks refused. Their wounds were too deep." She looked down. "But my master said, 'Mercy is the greatest virtue.'"
She closed her eyes.
"We obeyed. We took them in."
To be Continued...