Lyra’s voice still echoes in my head from the creek, how she said the sky was painting itself with soft colors today. She felt it too—like the light was trying to speak. I wanted to tell her everything, but my words got stuck in my throat. I’m scared to say what I’ve seen, what I’ve heard. What if the stones don’t want me to understand? What if they just want me to go away?
The last thing I remember before I fell asleep was the sound of the river. Not water flowing, but something deeper—like the earth breathing. I hope it’s just the river, but I don’t think it is.