The Echoes of the Forgotten River

Shu Yan’s sleep was restless, filled with fragments of memories that slipped away the moment she tried to grasp them. When she finally opened her eyes to the faint morning light streaming through the inn’s small window, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—had been watching her. The sensation lingered as she prepared for the day, her mind returning to the whisper from the riverbank.

As she made her way downstairs, the smell of herbal tea greeted her, and Grandmother Lin was already bustling around the inn’s small dining area. She looked up as Shu Yan entered, a knowing glint in her eyes.

“Did you sleep well?” the old woman asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer.

“Not exactly,” Shu Yan admitted, taking a seat by the window. “I kept having… dreams. Or maybe memories. It’s hard to tell.” She hesitated, then added, “And I thought I heard someone… something… calling to me by the river.”

Grandmother Lin gave a slight nod, unfazed. “The river has its ways of speaking. And those who’ve left tend to forget its language. But give it time. You’ll start to remember.”

Shu Yan frowned. “Remember what?”

The old woman handed her a steaming cup of tea, this time with a faintly floral scent that was both soothing and invigorating. She didn’t answer, instead watching Shu Yan intently as she took a sip. The taste was light yet complex, a blend that seemed to awaken something within her, stirring memories she hadn’t even known were buried.

As Shu Yan drank, images flickered through her mind—brief, fragmented flashes that felt like glimpses into a forgotten past. She saw herself as a child, standing by the river, her small hands clutching something—a candle, perhaps. Beside her was another child, their face blurry, and they were both whispering words she couldn’t remember.

The vision dissolved as quickly as it had come, leaving her with a hollow ache, a sense that something precious had been lost. She looked up at Grandmother Lin, who was still watching her, the faintest trace of a smile on her lips.

“You may find that some memories are clearer in the fog,” Grandmother Lin said cryptically. “Especially near the river.”

Feeling a growing urgency, Shu Yan finished her tea, thanked Grandmother Lin, and stepped outside. The morning fog had not yet lifted, casting a veil over the village, making it seem almost dreamlike. She found her way back to the riverbank, her heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and dread.

The river was calm, its surface like a mirror reflecting the grey sky. Shu Yan stood at the edge, her eyes tracing the gentle ripples, searching for any sign of the figure she’d seen the night before. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the river held answers, that it was trying to tell her something.

As she continued to watch the water, a voice sounded behind her, soft yet commanding.

“You’ve come back to seek what was left behind.”

Shu Yan turned quickly to see a man standing a few feet away. He wore simple monk’s robes, his posture serene yet somehow imposing. His face was weathered, but his eyes held a depth that made her feel as though he could see straight into her thoughts.

“I’m sorry… do I know you?” she asked, though something about him felt familiar.

The man gave a slight nod. “I am Aowen, a humble traveler and a friend to this village.” He paused, then added, “And I know you, Shu Yan. Or rather, I knew you once, many years ago.”

Shu Yan’s eyes widened. “You… knew me?”

Aowen’s gaze drifted to the river, his expression contemplative. “There are those who believe memories are like rivers—always flowing, always moving. Some are clear, and some are clouded, but all remain connected to the source.” He looked back at her, his expression unreadable. “Yours, I think, are beginning to flow once more.”

Shu Yan opened her mouth to ask what he meant, but before she could speak, he turned and gestured toward the river.

“Tell me, Shu Yan,” he continued, his voice low, “do you remember the altar?”

“The altar?” she repeated, confused. But as the words left her mouth, an image flashed in her mind—a small, weathered stone structure nestled among trees near the riverbank. She remembered playing near it as a child, though the memory was hazy, like a dream half-remembered upon waking.

Aowen nodded as if reading her thoughts. “It lies hidden, forgotten by most. But it has always waited for you, as the river has. You should visit it… see what it reveals.”

Shu Yan felt a chill run through her, a mixture of fear and curiosity. The monk’s words felt like a riddle, but something about them resonated within her, as though she’d been waiting to hear them her whole life.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked, a hint of suspicion in her voice.

Aowen smiled faintly. “Because the river has been waiting for you, and so have I. It is time you remembered, Shu Yan.”

With that, he turned and walked away, his figure slowly disappearing into the fog. Shu Yan watched him go, questions tumbling through her mind. She glanced back at the river, half-expecting to see the figure from the night before, but the water remained still, reflecting only the faint outline of the trees.

Determined to find answers, Shu Yan set off along the path Aowen had mentioned, following the curve of the river until she found herself standing before the small altar. The structure was old, overgrown with vines and moss, as if it had been left untouched for years. And yet, there was something familiar about it, something that stirred a strange sense of longing within her.

She knelt beside it, brushing away the leaves and dirt that had gathered there. Her fingers traced the smooth stone, and she felt a sudden jolt, as though a memory had been shocked back to life. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself as a child, kneeling by the altar, her hands clasped as if in prayer. And beside her was a boy, his face hidden, holding a small candle.

The memory was brief, but it left her breathless, her heart pounding with the weight of something she couldn’t yet understand. She stood up, staring at the altar, trying to piece together what it meant.

As she turned to leave, a faint whisper drifted through the air, barely louder than the rustling of leaves. It was the same voice she’d heard the night before, soft yet insistent.

“Remember…”

Shu Yan shivered, her mind spinning with questions. She began walking back to the village, her thoughts churning. Who was the boy in her memory? Why had she forgotten so much of her time here? And why did the river seem to call to her, urging her to remember?

By the time she returned to the inn, Shu Yan felt as though the village itself were closing in around her, its secrets hidden just beyond reach, waiting to be uncovered. But one thing was clear: whatever she had left behind all those years ago was beginning to stir once more, pulling her back into a world she’d long forgotten.

And deep within her, she felt a growing resolve. She would remember—no matter what it cost.