"Some journeys begin not with courage, but with the quiet refusal to vanish."
The morning in River moor always started slow, like the village was stretching awake after dreaming of better times. Mist curled low over the riverbanks, soft and pale, drifting past the groves where old stories clung to bark like stubborn moss. Those groves weren't just trees; they were the village's memory, older than records, older than the quiet superstitions everyone pretended not to believe. People swore the trunks whispered in winter and that dreams carried root-deep meanings if you slept too close to them. River moor never argued with old things. It simply got used to them.
The world felt peaceful enough to fool anyone—except Aarav.
He woke with that same pressure in his chest again. Not pain. Not fear. Just a weight, like something unseen expected him to move. Expected him to be. And he hated how normal it felt, how it slipped into his mornings like a long-lost habit he never asked for. For a moment, he stayed completely still, listening to the faint creaks of the small wooden house as it warmed under the sun, pretending he was nothing more than another villager with chores and quiet hopes.
He sat up on his cot, rubbing his eyes as sunlight seeped through the shutters in thin, golden threads. Dust drifted lazily in the beams, floating longer than they should've, as if unsure whether to fall or stay suspended in the slow air of dawn. The house was quiet—too quiet for a place that usually rattled with chores and neighbors knocking at ungodly hours. Someone, somewhere, was probably already yelling about water rations or missing tools. That was River moor's version of a heartbeat. But inside his home, it felt like the world was holding its breath.
He could almost pretend the day would stay ordinary.
Almost.
A faint hum drifted through the wood of the floorboards. Soft. Rhythmic. Not quite sound—more like the memory of one, like a vibration left behind by something that had passed through. Aarav froze. The pressure in his chest pulsed once, like it recognized the vibration before his mind did, a silent acknowledgment between two things that shouldn't have known each other.
Nope. Not dealing with that.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, grounding himself with the familiar cold bite of the floor. He splashed river-cold water on his face from the basin by the door, hoping the shock would chase the sensation away. It didn't. But the chill at least made him feel anchored.
Stepping outside, he found River moor sprawled in front of him like a painting older than sense—fields stretching to the horizon, cattle grazing half-asleep, smoke curling from distant chimneys in lazy spirals. A couple of elders were already sitting near the old marker stone, pretending they weren't arguing about whose grandson had the better harvest prospects. Kids chased each other between the fence posts, shrieking like gremlins unleashed. Someone shouted about broken fences again, because someone always shouted about broken fences in River moor.
Everything was normal.
Except it wasn't.
Aarav saw it in the corners of things—the faint shimmer at the edge of the water, the way dust motes hung a little too long in sunlight, the hush that fell whenever he focused too hard on any one spot. Like the world flinched when looked at too directly. Something old, something patient was pressed against the edges of reality, waiting for permission.
Something was waiting to wake up.
And he knew it wasn't the village.
He walked down the dirt path toward the river, hoping the cool air would smother the feeling. Tradition said water calmed the soul, peeled away the heaviness. Tradition also said emotions made ripples in the world, literally, if you weren't careful. Today, the river looked like it was holding its breath, its surface strangely smooth despite the breeze whispering across the fields.
"Morning," a familiar voice called.
Aarav turned to see Meera approaching, her notebook tucked under one arm, her expression already three steps ahead of the day. She scribbled something without breaking stride, probably another theory about migrating birds or the village's odd weather patterns. Even half-asleep, she carried herself like someone who refused to be surprised by the universe, no matter how many times it tried.
"You look like you lost a fight with your dreams," she said.
"Pretty sure they started it," Aarav muttered.
Meera studied him, eyes narrowing the way they always did when she sensed something off. She read people like they were footnotes in her notebook. Aarav hated that accuracy almost as much as he depended on it.
"The feeling again?" she asked quietly.
He shrugged. "It's nothing."
"It's never 'nothing' with you."
Before he could argue, a sharp whistle sliced through the morning air. Several villagers paused mid-step, glancing toward the sound instinctively. Birds scattered from a nearby roof, wings beating like scattered thoughts.
Amar strode toward them, shoulders squared, posture speaking in the language of discipline long before his mouth opened. He carried authority even in the way he breathed, a steadiness honed by years of being the person everyone expected answers from. His boots left crisp prints in the damp earth, too precise to be casual.
"There's a stranger on the north road," Amar said. "Old. Traveling alone. Doesn't look like a trader."
Meera stiffened, fingers tightening around her notebook. "Stranger? Here?"
Strangers didn't come to River moor. Not unless they were lost, desperate, or running from something they didn't name.
Aarav' s chest tightened—the pulse again, sharper this time, like his body already knew what was coming. The hum under his skin thrummed once, faint but unmistakable.
"What does he want?" Aarav asked.
Amar shook his head slowly. "Didn't say. Just asked for you."
Aarav felt the world tilt, the shimmer at the river sharpening into something like recognition, as though the water itself perked up at the news.
Of course. Of course the peace wouldn't last.
Meera stepped forward. "You don't even know him. Why would—"
"He said," Amar interrupted, "Aarav would understand the path he carries."
Aarav felt his heart stutter.
That wasn't a normal phrase. That wasn't village talk. That was the kind of language found buried in old stories, spoken only when something ancient brushed against the world. It was the sort of phrase the elders refused to explain, claiming some knowledge wasn't meant for casual daylight.
Meera' s gaze flicked between the two of them, her usual logic cracking at the edges. Amar' s jaw tightened, a rare sign he was unsettled. Even the air seemed to shift, as if listening.
The hum beneath Aarav' s feet deepened—quiet, steady, inevitable.
Meera and Amar were waiting for him to say something sensible.
He couldn't.
The air hummed again.
This time, Aarav didn't pretend he couldn't feel it.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Let's go meet him."
The river behind him rippled—without wind.
A single drop of water broke the surface, rising instead of falling, then shivering back into the river as if embarrassed to be seen.
The day finally woke up.
And it wasn't going to be gentle.
"He had taken a single step, and the world had already decided it was enough to notice."