Long before Roxanne was even born—before she even learned the sound of river-wind or the taste of summer salt—there was a feast that was being held beneath a red moon.

The entire family gathered, as they did each year, beside the black curve of the river.

There were no invitations. The call was in their blood.

Each house arrived with gifts and songs. Children chased fireflies through the high grass while older women lit the sacred fire and began the slow work of cooking. They did not speak of the ritual until the sun dipped behind the trees.

The entire place looked festive.

The place is cast in a warm glow of red and yellow from the sunset slowly turning darker.

Only then did the book appear.

Wrapped in dark cloth, carried by three elderly women whose names had long since been forgotten even by themselves.

The younger ones watched in reverent silence as the cloth was slowly undone, revealing a leather-bound tome stained with ash, blood, and river-silt. No one spoke of the rituals but they all were always there for it.

It was not read aloud.

It was remembered.

—

There was a time when forgetting was a gift.

When the river swallowed memories not to punish, but to protect.

It swallowed memories that would hurt to be remembered.

When the seals placed by the Guardians were strong enough to bind even grief.

But time, as always, erodes.

And where memory fades, something else grows—hunger.

Hunger that is insatiable.

—

At the center of the ritual stood a girl no older than seventeen. Her name had been chosen long before she was born. It passed through generations like a whisper: Joslyn.

The river accepted her.

Or so they believed.

But what the Kin did not see—what they chose not to see—was that the ritual required more than memory, more than blood. It needed something deeper.

It needed sacrifice.

---

When the chants began, the water rose unnaturally fast. The sky turned dark despite no clouds. And deep beneath the surface of the river, something ancient opened its eyes.

Joslyn did not scream when the ritual cut her palms open.

She screamed when she saw her sister’s reflection, flickering beside her own—twisting, warping, changing.

And then she was gone.

Not dead.

Not broken.

But bound.

The feast ended in silence.

The river was fed.

The book was closed.

And the Kin danced around a fire they no longer understood.

---

Generations passed.

The ritual remained.

And deep in the mud of the riverbank, the memory of that night waited—patient, dark, and unfinished.

Until a girl named Roxanne would rise.

And remember what no one else dared to.

They say Roxanne once stood at the edge of the Black Mouth and chose to remember when no one else would.

They say Amelia gave up her own memory so the world would not fall apart.

But stories change.

And now, fewer know their names.

Some believe the rituals were myths.

Some believe the Book never existed.

And some—the dangerous ones—believe forgetting was a mistake.

They chose to remember, to continue the ritual not knowing what lay ahead.

---

In the heart of the old woods, where even light forgets how to return, a child with no name walks barefoot in the dark.

She is not lost.

She is looking.

Behind her, a trail of roots lifts as if stirred by thought.

Ahead, a voice rises from the soil like mist:

> “Let it go. Let all of it go.”

The voice is not loud but firm and unmistakable.

---

At the Veilhouse, a young Guardian wakes in the middle of the night.

Their hands are covered in ink.

And on the page before them—one that was blank hours ago—a single line has appeared:

> “Roxanne never lived.”

The line simply appeared out of thin air like a premonition or perhaps like a hint.

---

The river ‘that remembers’ is no longer safe.

Because now, the river wants to forget.

And it will drown anyone who tries to stop it.

Roxanne, a young girl, decides to go against everyone and curiosity gets the better of her. Seeing what the ritual does she goes against all.

The sound of conch shells echoed across the valley, carried on the wind from the hills to the riverbank, where the earth smelled of wet clay and the water shimmered with early morning mist. It was the first day of the new moon, and the Reed family—scattered across a dozen homes in the nearby village of Blackwater—was preparing for their annual celebration by the River Azure.

Like clockwork, they came. One by one, families arrived in colorfully decorated bullock carts and jeeps, their children squealing with excitement, their arms laden with pots, garlands, and bundles of banana leaves. The older women—wrapped in pristine white cotton sarees with gold borders—walked barefoot to the river’s edge, their silver hair pulled back tightly, eyes sharp with the knowledge of traditions older than memory.

Every year, without fail, the Reeds performed their ancestral rituals at this sacred spot. And every year, they feasted beneath the oak trees, laughing and arguing like only a large family could.

But this year was different.

Lillian, the matriarch of the main house, had noticed it first: the silence of the birds. No birds chirped. No egrets fished along the muddy bank. The river seemed to flow slower, heavier. The sky, though clear, had a strange yellow tinge, like old parchment about to catch fire.

She shook the thought away. Perhaps she was just tired. At seventy-two, she had seen more than her share of good and bad omens, and had learned not to fear them.

The younger women began unpacking. Fires were lit in three stone circles, and the scent of roasting spices wafted through the trees. Children chased each other through the shallow water, while men laid out mats and bamboo plates. The air grew thick with incense, laughter, and anticipation.

Lillian’s granddaughter, Roxanne, arrived just before the sun reached its peak. She was late—again—and her mother scolded her under her breath. But Lillian only smiled. Roxanne reminded her of her younger self: curious, reckless, and always asking questions.

“Did you bring the book?” Lillian asked quietly as Roxanne greeted her.

Roxanne hesitated, her eyes flicking toward the small jute bag she carried slung across her shoulder. “Yes, grandma.”

Lillian’s smile faded. “You’re sure you want to do this?”

“I just want to understand,” Roxanne replied. “You always said the family carries power in blood and memory. I want to see it for myself.”

The book—bound in tanned leather, stitched together with what some claimed was human hair—was never brought to the river. It was kept hidden in the prayer room of the main house, wrapped in red cloth and buried beneath sacks of rice. Its name was never spoken aloud. The older women called it simply The Book.

Lillian had read from it once. Long ago. She remembered the pain in her chest, the shadow in her father’s eyes, the storm that drowned half the village. The power it held was real—and dangerous. But it was also seductive. It promised knowledge. And to the young and bold, that promise was often louder than any warning.

The rituals began with the lighting of the torch, the sacred brass torch. The eldest uncle, Harold, recited chants that rolled off his tongue like thunder. Women drew intricate patterns along the river’s edge, using white and yellow powder, forming shapes meant to welcome ancestors—and keep other things away.

As the chants rose in intensity, Roxanne slipped away. Her bare feet padded over soft earth, carrying her deeper into the forest’s edge, where the shadows grew darker and the sounds of celebration faded into stillness.

There, in a clearing covered with dry leaves and twisted roots, she opened the book.

The pages crackled with age, but the ink—dark as spilled oil—was fresh to the touch. The air around her shifted. A wind rose suddenly, though the leaves on the trees did not sway.

Her fingers brushed over a page marked with a symbol unlike any she had seen: a jagged circle surrounding a shape that looked like an open mouth. The title above it read:

The Rite of the Abyss.

Beneath it were instructions, handwritten in an ancestor’s angular script. Simple ingredients. A chant. A time.

Midnight.

She closed the book, her breath shallow. She should have felt fear. Instead, a strange exhilaration coursed through her veins, like drinking something too cold and too fast. A presence stirred in the air, not seen, but deeply felt—like someone watching from just behind her shoulder.

When she returned to the riverbank, the rituals had ended, and the feast had begun. No one noticed the slight trembling in her hands. No one questioned the strange gleam in her eyes.

Except Lillian.

As she watched her granddaughter laugh and serve rice on banana leaves, Lillian felt her chest tighten—not from age or effort, but from something else. A memory. A warning. A wound reopened.

This year, she thought, the river would not forgive.

—

The sun dipped below the hills, casting long shadows across the riverbank. The laughter had softened into low conversations, and the children, exhausted from running and swimming, lay sprawled on mats, their bellies full of sweet rice and jack fruit fritters.

Roxanne sat near the edge of the gathering, her gaze drifting to the water. It glowed orange, reflecting the sky above—but in its depths, something stirred. She saw it only for a moment: a ripple that moved against the current, like a hand brushing the underside of the surface.

No one else seemed to notice.

Behind her, a voice broke her trance. “You found it, didn’t you?”

It was her cousin Ashlyn, her voice hushed. Of all the younger generation, Ashlyn had always been the quiet one—the observer. Roxanne turned, forcing a smile.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Ashlyn narrowed her eyes. “Don’t lie. I saw you leave with that bag. I saw the red cloth.”

Roxanne hesitated, then gave a short nod. “It’s not what you think. I’m just trying to understand why everyone is so afraid of it.”

“Because we have good reason,” Ashlyn said, her voice tight. “They don’t tell us the full stories, but I’ve heard the whispers. That the book is cursed. That the last time someone tried to use it, a child drowned in the river.”

Roxanne looked back at the water. “Maybe it wasn’t the book. Maybe it was just the river.”

Ashlyn leaned in. “Don’t be so sure. My mother told me something once—after she caught me trying to find it. She said the river remembers. That it’s tied to whatever is in that book. Every time we bring it close to the water, something wakes up.”

Roxanne said nothing. But the words lingered like smoke in her mind.

That night, the family spread out their bedrolls under the open sky. Stars blinked overhead, and the forest hummed with crickets and the occasional cry of a night bird. The river, ever faithful, whispered in the dark.

Roxanne waited until the camp was quiet. Her heart thudded in her chest as she slipped away, the old book pressed against her side. The sky had shifted—clouds rolling in like bruises, the moon veiled.

She walked to the edge of the river, where the oak trees arched overhead like sentinels. There, she laid out the ritual items: a bowl of cow’s milk, black sesame seeds, a piece of red cloth, and a small bronze mirror—objects described in the margins of the Book.

She flipped to the page again. The script seemed darker now, pulsing faintly as if it knew it was being read. Her lips moved soundlessly, and then, when the time felt right, she began to chant.

The words scratched at her throat—rough, ancient syllables she barely understood. As the last line left her tongue, the surrounding wind dropped to stillness.

The river stopped.

Not slowed—stopped. Like someone had taken the breath out of the world.

She stared at the still surface, and her reflection stared back. But it wasn’t hers. The eyes in the reflection were black, deep as tunnels. The mouth twisted in a cruel smile she didn’t make.

Then it whispered.

Not aloud—but in her head, a voice like rusted iron.

“You have called. I have come.”

Roxanne stumbled backward, but her feet felt rooted. Her body froze, her breath short and sharp.

“You are blood of the line,” the voice continued.

“The debt is yours. And the door is open.”

“What door?” Roxanne whispered, eyes wide. “What do you want from me?”

A low laugh rolled through her mind. “Not from you. Through you.”

Suddenly, the river surged upward in a silent wave—then dropped back, as if exhaling. Roxanne fell to her knees, heart pounding.

The wind returned. Crickets sang again. And the river flowed as if nothing had happened.

The ritual was done.

Far behind her, Lillian sat upright in her bedroll, eyes wide open. Her old bones ached, but it wasn’t age—it was memory. She had felt the shift. The same cold she’d felt when her brother had drowned fifty years ago. The same stillness.

She stood, wrapping her shawl tightly, and looked towards the trees.

“She did it,” she whispered to the dark. “God help us… she did it.”