Chapter 141
The Hollow's Edge
Lira follows the river upstream toward the hollow's edge as the water darkens and the shadow's voice grows clearer. She reaches the roots of the first tree and faces the last word of the unmade world, but the second sign arrives before she can speak it.
The current deepened as Lira waded upstream, the water rising past her waist, then her chest. The golden light of the sun filtered through the silver trees, but it grew thinner with each step, as if the river itself were drinking the day. She kept her eyes on the darkening water ahead, where the clarity of the stream gave way to something deeper, something that swallowed the light.
The thread on her palm pulsed in rhythm with her heartbeat. The whisper returned, not as a word now but as a sensation—a cold breath against the back of her throat, a memory of something she had never known. The shadow wanted her to remember, but the memory was not hers. It belonged to the first world, to the choices that had never been made, to the grief that had been buried beneath the river's bed.
She pushed on. The water grew colder, and the silver trees on the bank began to fade, their leaves turning grey, then black. The birds that had fallen silent earlier were gone now, replaced by a stillness that pressed against her ears. The only sound was the soft ripple of the current, and beneath it, a low hum like a distant loom.
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