The river had been silent that evening, its waters stretched like a dark ribbon under the vast, scattered constellations. A faint breeze carried the scent of damp earth and wild chamomile, curling through the warm air. Kaalaa Baunaa stood at the wooden dock, her fingers grazing the edge of a boat, its frame worn by time yet sturdy beneath her touch. She turned slightly, her gaze steady, distant. The invitation had been unspoken, yet undeniable.

The moment passed like the slip of a shadow, and suddenly, the river carried them both. The wooden hull creaked in gentle protest, rippling through the silence as they drifted, slow and aimless, upon the water. A silvered mist clung low to the surface, shifting with every motion, parting as if the night itself were breathing. The stars above gleamed cold and untouchable, scattered across the abyss like shattered glass.

Kaalaa Baunaa sat with her back straight, the folds of her deep-blue shawl draped over her shoulders, lined with delicate gold stitching that caught the moonlight in faint glimmers. Her gaze trailed over the celestial dome above, half-lidded, reflective. “People think the stars are eternal,” she murmured, tilting her head slightly. “But they collapse, burn, vanish. Everything drifts toward its own end. Even light.”

The boat rocked gently, steady as the pulse of the river. She exhaled softly, her breath a ghost in the cold air. Beneath her touch, the wooden planks held the memory of countless crossings, of those who had sailed before, their stories lost to time. The scent of cinnamon and khus clung faintly to her, an echo of distant lands, of something familiar yet unknowable.

The river stretched before them, endless, as if they were no longer tethered to the earth but adrift in the expanse between stars. Time no longer felt linear—it curved and folded, bending beneath the weight of thought, of memory. The world beyond the river’s banks blurred into a haze of shapes and whispers, unimportant, insubstantial.