The trail narrowed as Ira walked the monk’s path—barely more than a thread through the woods.

  It coiled downward first, then rose abruptly, flanked by twisted trees whose branches pointed unnaturally toward the earth.

  She kept glancing at the cloth map, tracing her finger from the red inked trail to the circle labelled Kala Kuan.

  There was no scale. No landmarks. Just that one, feverish red circle, pulsing in her mind.

  Around noon, the forest opened to reveal a clearing—terraced fields, mist clinging to the soil like something living.

  And there it was. Dharmagaon.

  Twelve houses—no more—sat like crooked teeth on the mountain slope. Slate roofs. Blackened windows. A chill pulsed from the ground.

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  Ira paused. She had expected ruins. Collapsed beams. Faded history.

  But smoke curled lazily from one chimney. A goat bleated from somewhere behind a shed.

  The village was alive.

  She descended slowly, watching for people. But there were no children playing, no elders chatting—just silence.

  At the base of the slope, a man appeared from a hut.

  Middle-aged, gray-eyed, wearing a shawl and no shoes despite the cold.

  “You came from the south path?” he asked. His voice was too calm.

  “Yes,” Ira said, hesitantly. “A monk showed me—”

  “There is no monk on that side.”

  He turned and gestured toward a vacant guesthouse.

  “You must be tired,” he said. “Rest. Tonight, you’ll meet Ama.”

  He smiled, but something in his expression didn’t move with the rest of his face. As she entered the guesthouse, Ira’s breath caught.

  There were no mirrors. Only the faint scent of damp stone and—beneath it— burnt honey.