Morning arrived quietly in the village, as it always did, with no announcement beyond the pale lifting of the sky. The night's chill still clung to the air, and a thin mist hovered low over the earth, softening the familiar outlines of fences and roofs. Asoka rose before the others, her body moving by habit rather than conscious intent, as though her limbs knew their duties even when her mind did not.
She swept the courtyard slowly, careful to gather every fallen leaf, even those blown into the corners by the wind. The broom whispered against the ground. She drew water from the well, the rope rough beneath her palms, and washed the clay bowls from the night before, rinsing them again even when they were already clean. When that was done, she knelt beside the small patch of earth near the fence and loosened soil that did not truly need loosening, her fingers sinking into the cool dirt as if searching for something hidden beneath it.
Yet no matter how steady her hands were, her thoughts refused to settle.
Something weighed on her—a restlessness she could not name. It was not fear exactly, nor sorrow, but something uncomfortably close to both. A sensation like standing in a room where something important had been removed, leaving only the impression of its absence behind. She felt as though something had slipped from her grasp without her ever noticing when, and now her mind kept reaching for it, again and again, finding nothing.
Eliza had already left the village that morning. The space she usually occupied felt oddly hollow, too quiet, as if the air itself noticed her absence. Asoka told herself it was nothing, that people came and went all the time. Still, the emptiness lingered, pressing gently but persistently against her thoughts.
She wiped her hands on her skirt and stood in the middle of the courtyard, breathing slowly, forcing herself to remain still. There was one person left she could speak to. One person who listened without rushing to conclusions, who treated questions with care rather than suspicion.
Soha.
After straightening her clothes, Asoka stepped onto the village path. The streets were calm, villagers beginning their morning routines—doors opening, voices murmuring, the faint clatter of tools being lifted for the day's work. Familiar faces passed her, offering small nods and polite greetings. She returned them automatically, though her thoughts were already far ahead of her steps.
Soha's house sat near the edge of the village, modest and carefully kept. Bundles of dried herbs hung beneath the eaves, and when Asoka arrived, she found Soha outside, arranging fresh ones on a low wooden table. The scent of crushed leaves drifted through the air.
"Soha," Asoka called softly.
Soha turned, surprise flickering briefly across her face before settling into a warm smile.
"Asoka? You're up early."
"I needed to speak with you," Asoka said. "If you have time."
Soha studied her for a moment, her gaze attentive rather than curious. Whatever she saw in Asoka's expression made her nod. "Of course. Come—sit."
They settled onto a wooden bench near the wall of the house. For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable, filled only by the distant sounds of the village waking fully to life.
Asoka was the first to break it.
"I don't know how to explain this," she said quietly. "I've tried to ignore it, but it keeps returning. It feels like… like something inside me is unsettled. As if my thoughts are circling something I can't see."
Soha listened without interrupting, her hands folded loosely in her lap.
"I wake up feeling as though I've forgotten something important," Asoka continued. "Not a task. Not a name. Something deeper. And when I try to remember, there's nothing there. Just emptiness."
Soha frowned slightly. "Have you been sleeping well?"
"Not really," Asoka admitted. "Even when I sleep, my mind feels awake. I don't know why."
"So many things can disturb rest," Soha said gently. "Change, uncertainty, even anticipation."
"I thought so too," Asoka said quickly. "But this isn't just that. This feeling… it's different. It's like something is wrong, and everyone else is pretending it isn't."
Soha did not answer at once. The pause was subtle, but Asoka noticed it immediately—the way her cousin's fingers tightened together, the way her gaze drifted away instead of meeting her eyes. It was the same look people wore when they carried knowledge they had not yet decided to share.
"Soha," Asoka said carefully, "you're thinking something."
Soha exhaled slowly. "I am."
"Then say it."
"I don't know if I should," she replied. "Not yet."
That answer unsettled Asoka more than silence ever could. "Why?"
"Because," Soha said, lowering her voice even though no one else was near, "once certain questions are spoken to the wrong ears, they don't remain questions anymore."
Asoka frowned. "What does that mean?"
"It means," Soha said slowly, choosing each word with care, "that some things, once noticed, begin to notice back."
A chill traced its way up Asoka's spine. "So you do think something is wrong."
Soha met her gaze fully then. For the first time, there was no attempt to soften her expression, no polite reassurance layered over uncertainty.
"Yes," she said. "I do."
The word settled heavily between them, altering the shape of the morning.
"Then help me," Asoka said. "Please."
Soha nodded, deliberate and calm. "I will. But not here. And not like this."
"What do you mean?"
"There is someone I need to speak to first," Soha said. "Someone who may help me understand what you're touching without realizing it."
Asoka's heart began to beat faster. "Who?"
Soha stood, brushing her hands against her skirt. "A teacher from the church."
The word echoed strangely in Asoka's thoughts, though she could not have said why.
"So you'll go?" Asoka asked.
"Yes," Soha said. "Tomorrow, or the day after."
"And then?"
Soha paused, her hand resting on the wooden gate. "Then we'll see whether what you're feeling is confusion… or a warning."
She opened the gate and stepped onto the path, then stopped.
"Asoka," she added without turning, "until I inquire, don't ask anyone else these questions."
Asoka swallowed. "Why?"
"Because," Soha said quietly, "I don't yet know who should be trusted with them."
She left without another word.
Asoka remained where she was, the air suddenly feeling too still, the morning no longer gentle. For the first time, her questions no longer felt harmless.
And that frightened her more than not knowing the answers ever had.