Episode 2
1174 Words
The Voice in the Rain
Amara did not sleep that night.
The sound of the singing stayed inside her head long after the storm faded into silence. Even hours later, while the village lay asleep beneath the darkness, she remained awake in bed staring at the ceiling, her blanket pulled tightly around her body.
Her mother’s voice.
It had sounded exactly the same.
Soft. Warm. Gentle enough to calm storms.
Impossible.
A cold wind slipped through the cracks in her bedroom walls, carrying the faint scent of wet earth and burning oil. Outside, rainwater dripped steadily from the rooftops while frogs croaked somewhere near the riverbanks.
But beneath those ordinary sounds was something else.
A whisper.
Almost too faint to hear.
Amara slowly sat upright.
At first she thought the sound came from outside her window, but then she realized it was coming from downstairs.
Footsteps.
Her grandmother was awake.
Carefully, Amara climbed out of bed and opened her bedroom door. The hallway below was dark except for a dim orange glow flickering from the living room.
She descended the staircase quietly.
As she approached the room, voices reached her ears.
One belonged to her grandmother.
The other belonged to a man.
Amara frowned.
Nobody visited their house at night.
She stepped closer until she could finally see into the room.
An old man sat beside the fireplace, rainwater dripping from his dark cloak onto the floorboards. His gray beard looked soaked from the storm, and deep scars stretched across his hands like old cracks in stone. A carved wooden staff rested beside him.
Amara had never seen him before.
Her grandmother looked tense.
“You should not have come here,” the old woman whispered sharply.
“The lantern appeared at your door,” the stranger replied. “That means it has begun again.”
Amara’s heartbeat quickened.
The old man noticed her standing near the hallway.
His eyes widened slightly.
“So this is her daughter,” he murmured.
Her grandmother immediately stood. “Amara, go back upstairs.”
“No.”
The word escaped before fear could stop it.
Amara stepped into the room fully. “I want answers.”
The old man studied her carefully, his expression unreadable.
“She has her mother’s eyes,” he said quietly.
Amara ignored the comment. “Who are you?”
“My name is Baba Duro,” he answered. “I once protected this village from the things hidden beneath the forest.”
Amara folded her arms. “Then maybe you can explain why my mother’s voice was calling from the Lantern Tree.”
Silence filled the room.
The fire crackled weakly.
Her grandmother looked away.
Baba Duro sighed heavily before leaning forward in his chair.
“Tell me,” he said, “what do you know about the Lantern Tree?”
“Only stories,” Amara replied bitterly. “And none of them make sense.”
The old man nodded slowly.
“Because the villagers fear the truth.”
Thunder rumbled faintly outside.
Baba Duro lowered his voice.
“Long before this village existed, the forest belonged to spirits older than mankind. Some were peaceful. Others were not. Deep within the hills stood a sacred tree where the boundary between the living and the dead was thin.” He paused. “That tree became what you now call the Lantern Tree.”
Amara listened silently.
“The lanterns,” Baba Duro continued, “were created to hold wandering souls. Every spirit trapped inside them carried unfinished grief — sorrow too heavy to leave this world behind.”
Her skin prickled uneasily.
“You’re saying ghosts live inside the lanterns?”
“In a way.”
Her grandmother suddenly interrupted. “Enough. The child does not need to hear this.”
“She deserves the truth,” Baba Duro replied firmly.
The old woman’s face tightened with fear.
Amara noticed it immediately.
Fear.
Not disbelief.
That frightened her more than the story itself.
“What happened to my mother?” Amara asked softly.
Neither elder answered immediately.
Finally, Baba Duro spoke.
“She went searching for the heart of the curse.”
“The curse?”
“The hunger beneath the tree.”
The room felt colder.
Baba Duro reached into his cloak and pulled out something wrapped carefully in cloth. He placed it gently onto the table.
Amara stared at it.
A journal.
Old and worn.
Her breath caught instantly.
She recognized the faded blue fabric covering it.
It belonged to her mother.
“I found it near the forest border this morning,” Baba Duro said quietly. “Hidden beneath stones.”
Amara grabbed the journal with shaking hands.
Her throat tightened painfully as she traced her fingers across the familiar cover.
For three years, this was the first thing connected to her mother that had ever been found.
“She left clues inside,” Baba Duro continued. “But if you choose to follow them, your life will change forever.”
Her grandmother shook her head violently. “No. She cannot get involved.”
“She already is.”
The old woman fell silent.
Amara slowly opened the journal.
The pages smelled old, damp, and faintly of jasmine perfume.
Most entries were filled with ordinary things — village errands, herbal recipes, reminders. But deeper within the journal, the handwriting changed.
Messier.
Fearful.
One sentence immediately caught Amara’s attention.
The tree is waking again.
Another read:
The lanterns are appearing sooner than before.
Then finally—
If anything happens to me, never let Amara go near the hill after dark.
Amara’s chest tightened painfully.
“What does this mean?” she whispered.
Before anyone could answer, a scream shattered the silence outside.
All three of them froze.
Another scream followed.
This time closer.
Amara rushed toward the window.
Lantern light flickered wildly across the village pathways as people emerged from their homes carrying torches. Fearful voices echoed through the rain-soaked darkness.
Then Amara saw them running toward the river.
“What happened?” she asked.
Baba Duro’s expression darkened.
Without warning, he stood immediately and grabbed his staff.
“We are too late.”
Her grandmother looked terrified. “No…”
Amara turned toward them. “Too late for what?”
Baba Duro looked directly into her eyes.
“The tree has taken someone.”
Before Amara could respond, the old man hurried toward the door.
Amara followed him into the storm despite her grandmother’s protests behind them.
Cold rain struck her skin instantly.
Villagers crowded near the riverbank ahead, shouting over one another in panic. Some carried lanterns while others prayed loudly beneath trembling breaths.
Amara pushed through the crowd.
Then she saw it.
A small boy stood near the river’s edge, shaking uncontrollably.
His mother held him tightly while crying hysterically.
“What happened?” someone asked.
The woman pointed toward the muddy ground.
Amara looked down.
Footprints.
Wet footprints leading away from the river.
Toward the forest.
Toward the Lantern Tree.
And beside them lay another glowing lantern.
- Writer
