Chapter 11: A Hollow in the Wind
The morning sun filtered in through the reed blinds of the hut, casting golden lines across the woven floor mats and the soft curve of Avrielle's growing belly. Six months along now, her body had blossomed in ways she hadn't thought possible. The small bump that once made her giddy had grown into a gentle swell that pressed against the fabric of her dresses.
Ian would talk to the baby every night, his voice low and tender, telling stories or humming lullabies that had no origin—just simple melodies born out of love. Sometimes, the baby kicked right in response, as if already reaching for its father's voice.
Avrielle had never felt so loved… and yet, a strange feeling had begun to settle inside her—quietly at first, like a distant rustle in the leaves, then louder and more persistent, like a whisper she couldn't ignore.
It began three nights ago.
She had woken in the middle of the night, her mouth dry, her body warm and slightly restless. The moonlight poured in through the window and the silence was deep—deeper than it had ever felt before. She lay there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling. Something felt… missing.
There was no incense in the air.
No murmuring chants outside the window.
No soft music or footsteps in the village square.
For the first time in months, the nightly ritual hadn't happened.
And she had felt it.
The absence of it wasn't just a matter of noise or scent—it was something deeper. Like her mind had skipped a beat, like a clock losing time.
Avrielle had sat up in bed slowly, watching Ian as he slept beside her. He looked peaceful, one hand draped protectively over her belly, the other curled near his chin. A wave of love crashed over her at the sight of him—and then right behind it, a ripple of confusion.
Why hadn't the ritual happened last night?
It had been every night. Always. At the same time.
The villagers never missed it—not once.
That strange, sacred chant at dusk, followed by the rhythmic claps and the smell of crushed herbs burning near their home. At first, she had accepted it as a custom, something every couple went through. But now, its absence left a cold vacuum in her chest.
And what was the ritual for anyway?
She had never asked. Neither had Ian.
They had accepted it like everything else—as natural as waking up together, cooking over the fire pit, laughing with the village children. It was part of life here. And yet, she couldn't recall how it had started. Who had first explained its purpose? When had it become necessary?
She didn't sleep that night.
---
The next morning, Avrielle tried to push the thoughts away. She busied herself with chores, picking herbs, checking on the hens in the coop, and preparing Ian's favorite breakfast—rice cakes with coconut syrup.
But the questions wouldn't leave her.
"Is something wrong?" Ian asked gently as they sat on the back steps of their hut, looking out at the trees swaying beyond the village.
Avrielle forced a smile, brushing her hair behind her ear. "No. Just didn't sleep well."
Ian leaned in, kissing her temple. "I've noticed you're a bit quiet. You don't have to hide anything from me."
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, but then rested her head on his shoulder, inhaling the familiar warmth of his scent. She couldn't tell him yet. Not until she understood what was bothering her.
"I think the baby had me up all night," she said lightly. "He's becoming a little night owl."
Ian chuckled. "Well, let's hope he doesn't take after me. I was a complete menace as a toddler."
She laughed with him, but something in her heart ached quietly.
That night, she stayed awake again.
The ritual didn't happen.
For the third night in a row, the village lay quiet, the moon rising without chants, without incense, without the humming vibration she hadn't realized had been lulling her to sleep every single night.
---
On the fourth day, she walked further out into the village than she usually did, past the well, past Amma's hut, and down the winding path toward the cliffside where the sacred tree stood. It was a revered place, covered in garlands and prayer threads, where women often came to pray for fertility, blessings, and peace.
As she walked, she passed a few villagers—smiling, waving at her, offering her ripe mangoes and wishing her good health. Their kindness was overwhelming, sincere even, but their eyes… their eyes seemed a little too watchful now.
Or was it just her mind playing tricks?
She reached the sacred tree and sat beneath it. Her hand automatically fell over her belly, rubbing slow circles as the baby kicked lightly beneath her skin.
"I should be happy," she murmured to herself. "I am happy."
And she was.
She had Ian. She had a home. She had a child on the way.
But why did it all feel so… fragile suddenly?
She looked up at the tree, watching the ribbons sway in the wind. Her memory—what little she had of life before this place—felt like a fog. It hadn't bothered her before. The absence of a past had seemed irrelevant when her present was so full.
But now?
Now it felt like something precious had been taken from her.
Or buried.
She ran her fingers through the earth beneath her. It was warm, soft. Her fingers stopped when they hit something cool—a stone or shell perhaps. She pulled it out gently and found a small silver pendant.
It wasn't hers.
She stared at it for a long moment, then looked around. No one was watching. She slipped it into her pocket.
Somewhere inside her, a door had cracked open.
---
Later that evening, when Ian returned from gathering wood, she smiled and welcomed him with a kiss like she always did. She didn't say a word about her doubts, or the pendant, or the silence of the missing rituals.
But as they sat together, watching the fire crackle and their shadows dancing on the wall, Avrielle's eyes remained distant.
She wasn't sure what was happening, but she knew one thing—something wasn't right.
Something deeply wasn't right.
And the more she thought about it, the more terrified she became of what might happen if she asked the wrong questions.
So she said nothing.
For now.