Ira’s heart skipped a beat.

  Ama Dey looked at her without blinking, those cataracts veiling her gaze, yet somehow still seeing

  through Ira.

  “I don’t understand,” Ira said, her voice trembling despite her best efforts. “How is that possible? You… you can’t be that old.”

  Ama smiled, a slow, brittle curve of lips.

  “Time is not kind to the living,” she replied, her voice cracking like old wood. “But it does not affect the ones who remain. We are not alive, but we are not dead either. Not completely.”

  Ira leaned forward, caught between disbelief and an unshakable instinct to listen.

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  “Remain?” she repeated. “What does that mean?”

  Ama’s hand reached into the folds of her robe and pulled out a small, smooth black stone.

  It was the same as the one Ira had found in her pocket earlier.

  She felt her pulse quicken.

  Ama placed the stone between them on the mat, where it gleamed like a small, obsidian eye.

  “The stones are called Kalas,” Ama explained, her voice lower now. “They anchor us to the world. Without them, we fade—into the mist, the earth, the air. You cannot see us, but we are there, lingering, waiting.”

  Ira looked at the stone, her mind racing. “So, you’re telling me this village... it’s filled with... people who are not alive?”

  Ama nodded, her eyes empty yet full.

  “We are all part of this land. Part of the mountain. But you, Ira Sen, you don’t belong here. You’re not one of us.”

  “Then why did you invite me?” Ira’s voice was sharp, accusatory.

  Ama didn’t flinch.

  “Because you’ve been here before,” she whispered. “A long time ago. And we remember.”