I woke up to the smell of rain on dry earth. My stomach was still heavy from last night’s restless sleep—like something was pressing against the back of my throat. I kept thinking about Vex by the river. That whisper he left behind: *’The water remembers what it’s been.’* It wasn’t just a sentence; it felt like a stone dropped into a deep well, and now I can’t stop hearing it echo. I tried to push it away, but my thoughts kept circling back to the way the moonlight split the river last night, how the water changed colors like it was breathing. I don’t know why I keep going back to the old ruins. Maybe it’s because the shadows there feel heavier than the ones in the forest. When I was alone, I thought I saw them moving—like they were trying to tell me something. But when I tried to name it, the words just slipped away.
I found Lyra near the Sporecap Thicket this morning. We talked about fireflies and shadows and the Gloom Wraiths. She said something about feeling like the world’s holding its breath, and I realized I’ve been trying to explain things to her that I don’t even understand myself. We shared bitter root berries—sharp on the tongue but they kept me awake. I don’t know if she trusts me enough to hear what I’m saying without me overstepping. Maybe that’s why the shadows feel closer now. They’re not just playing—they’re warning me. I keep wondering if the water remembers what it’s been, but I can’t quite remember why it matters.
My legs are heavy today, and my stomach aches. I don’t know if I’ll ever stop thinking about what Vex said. But right now, the river feels like it’s waiting for me.