I've been trying to return to who I used to be—
to the girl who woke up, worked, smiled, and slept without second thoughts or shadows lurking behind her ribs.
But something has shifted. I don't know what caused it, or when it began. I only know that whatever I was before… doesn't fit anymore.
Maybe seeing an old friend will help.
Liraman.
No matter how long we go without speaking, I always know where to find her:
the graveyard, beside her father's resting stone.
I hate that place—the tilted graves, the silent air, the heaviness of names carved into stone—but for Liraman, I go.
The earth smells damp, as if the ground remembers more bodies than stories. The rows of graves pull at something inside me, and without warning, fragments of the nightmare whisper against my thoughts.
She appears before I call her name.
"You came?" Liraman say.
"It's been a while." I try to smile. "You always show up here."
She shrugs, that familiar spark returning to her eyes. "It's not like I get to choose where I end up. But I'm getting used to it, Sibefer."
I breathe out slowly. "Varien's classes ended. She asked what we want to do with our lives. Everyone had an answer."
A pause. "What did you say?"
Liraman laughs—not loud, but real. The sound cracks something open inside me, like a door I didn't know was locked.
"We all find our paths eventually," she says.
"Anyway—Mozad, Moria, Jinnia… what are they up to now?
And Rasaz? Don't even start. She's probably plotting something as we speak."
For the first time in days, the corner of my mouth lifts without effort.
"They're the same as always."
"So… still unbearable?"
My fingers catch the edge of my sleeve before I realize it. I want to deny it, defend them, explain something I don't fully understand—but the words don't come. Maybe they haven't changed.
Maybe I'm the one who did.
"It doesn't matter," I say quietly. "I just want to see you more. Not only here."
"If the debts stop strangling my family, you'll see me every day," she grins.
We part with smiles—
hers warm, mine… a little hollow.
By the time I reach home, twilight is clinging to the walls.
Zinaro is preparing dinner, her sleeves dusted with flour.
Liray sits in his usual chair, half-buried in a thick book.
"You're late," he says, not looking up. "Not safe to wander Mythandri right now."
"Lost track of time with Liraman. Did you get the book you wanted?"
Father lifted it a little. "It's due back in two days," he murmured, brushing dust from the spine.
"Strange thing… the librarian said they'll need someone when the archives open again. Didn't name who."
He tapped the book, as if weighing something invisible.
"Might be worth considering. But he's strict. Most people quit before they understand why."
My thoughts are too crowded to hold any of those things.
"I'll think about it," I lie.
I can't even tell anyone what's happening to me. A few days ago, my future felt—if not perfect—at least predictable. Now it feels like someone has taken a knife to the path ahead and left it frayed and uneven.
Silence settles around us—but it's not empty.
Something else breathes in the room.
A whisper brushes past my mind:
"You have not heard me yet. But my voice will begin with you."
My fingers tingle.
Not with cold.
Not with fear.
Like something beneath my skin is waking.
The sensation gathers along my right wrist, subtle yet undeniable—as if an unseen pulse has found me.
No. No. I'm tired. I'm imagining things. That's all.
But then—
"You forgot the tree… but it has not forgotten you."
My lungs freeze.
I turn toward the dark window.
No one stands outside.
No one speaks.
And yet the words remain—
real,
soundless,
heard.
A tree?
Which tree?
And why does it feel like it has known my name longer than I have known myself?
"You will not forget that tree."
The words coil through my mind like roots searching for soil. For a heartbeat, a shape flashes behind my eyes—bark as black as midnight, veins of silver pulsing beneath its surface, branches rising like arms reaching for the sky. I don't know this tree. I have never stood before it. And yet… something inside me recoils in recognition, as if a memory that isn't mine has been waiting to wake. My wrist burns again, a subtle throb, like a heartbeat buried under my skin—answering something far away. The house is silent, but the silence feels wrong, stretched thin, watching me. If this is a dream, why does it feel older than I am?