Arl stood by the lakeshore, looking at the steles and ancient trees arranged around the water.

  Some trees rose into the sky, their branches nearly blotting out the light.

  Others were shorter and sturdy, standing level with the stone monuments.

  It felt deliberate—

  or simply the result of each growing as it would.

  The steles were carved with theological script.

  It was not the type commonly seen in the Temple of Anda—the lines were cleaner, the turns fewer, resembling another branch of the same discipline.

  Yet she was almost certain it still belonged to the same theological system.

  Because at the top of every stele was the familiar sacred motif.

  She had seen that pattern before.

  Whenever it appeared at the crown of a monument, it meant—

  these words belonged to theology.

  She circled the ten steles once.

  She did not touch them. She read line by line with her eyes alone. Most of the sentences eluded her—unfamiliar grammar, distant structure.

  But there were a few lines where she paused.

  Certain words she recognized.

  In her memory, the dim lamplight of the Temple of Anda remained clear.

  During the time she was recovering, her grandmother had once read fragments of herbal texts from damaged pages to distract her.

  Those records had been written in theological script.

  At the time, she had only listened.

  Now those scattered words surfaced from deep within her memory.

  The meaning was still incomplete.

  Like a puzzle missing wide sections.

  She did not grow impatient.

  If the words could not fully reveal themselves—

  then perhaps she should examine what they were attached to.

  Her gaze shifted to the ancient trees.

  Thick vines wrapped tightly around trunks and stone alike.

  From a distance, they resembled ropes binding the steles to the trees.

  But upon closer inspection, their growth was not chaotic.

  Their curves and extensions seemed guided by an invisible order, winding along the carved grooves of the stone before returning to the trunk.

  The trees themselves—were simply trees.

  She stepped closer and inhaled. The scent was ordinary. The bark rough. Nothing unusual.

  But when she lifted her gaze upward along the trunk, she noticed hollows of varying sizes scattered across the bark.

  Irregular.

  Yet somehow… corresponding.

  Was it intentional?

  Or natural?

  She could not tell.

  There was no clear trace of human interference.

  Yet it did not feel random either.

  She did not force an answer.

  Instead, she set the question aside and continued observing.

  Her gaze moved slowly to the lake.

  The water was clear blue and calm. Fish moved freely beneath the surface. Their colors were unlike those she had seen in ordinary rivers—

  Some shimmered pale gold.

  Some bore a gentle violet-gray.

  A few had tails tinted faint silver-blue, as if brushed by morning light.

  From afar, they looked like blossoms suspended in water.

  The ecosystem was thriving.

  Soft water plants. Gentle currents. No fear among the fish.

  Then something discordant caught her eye.

  Among the swaying weeds lay a dark object—

  like a charred piece of wood.

  Its blackened edges were tangled in water plants, resting at the bottom, stark against the clarity around it.

  Arl fell silent for a moment.

  Then she removed her shoes.

  “Veyra. Stay here.”

  She did not turn back.

  Veyra stood at the shore, watching her.

  Arl stepped into the lake. The water was deeper—and colder—than near the bank.

  She picked up a sturdy stick to probe ahead.

  Before each step, she let the stick touch the lakebed first—

  confirm, pause, move.

  Ripples spread outward.

  The fish scattered into shards of light, then quietly gathered again behind her.

  The water rose to her chest.

  She bent to grab the charred wood, but weeds held it fast.

  Several attempts failed.

  The shifting water distorted her vision.

  The dark shape swayed below, as though unwilling to leave.

  Arl did not retreat.

  She drew a small knife from her waist, took a steady breath, and let herself sink with the water’s pull.

  The lake closed over her ears and hair.

  For a moment, the world grew distant.

  She cut through the weeds in swift motions.

  The blade parted both water and resistance.

  Freed.

  She gripped the charred wood and pushed upward with her feet, breaking the surface.

  Droplets ran from her hair.

  The wood lay silent in her palm.

  It was indeed burned.

  Yet beneath the blackness, the staining seemed deliberate.

  Uneven shades layered across its surface—like wounds left by flame, or markings intentionally applied.

  She examined it carefully.

  On one side, faint lines were visible.

  Most were obscured by the burn, their original shape unclear.

  She ran her thumb slowly over the roughened surface.

  The texture was coarse, with shallow indentations.

  She could not tell whether they were letters, symbols, or wood grain twisted by heat.

  The lake swayed gently beside her.

  She looked at her reflection—clothes clinging, hair dripping, her figure stretched and broken by ripples.

  Better to return to shore and make a fire.

  Warmth first. Answers later.

  She tightened her grip on the wood and walked back.

  The water shallowed. The mud beneath her feet grew firm again.

  Veyra watched her quietly, in the same posture as before she entered the water,

  as if it had never moved.

  Arl began searching the lakeshore for dry branches.

  She chose the thin, brittle kind that snapped cleanly between her fingers.

  At first, Veyra simply stood nearby, watching.

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  After a while, it lowered its head to sniff the ground,

  then picked up a fallen branch of similar thickness and carried it over, placing it beside her.

  Arl glanced up at it.

  Veyra’s expression was focused, as if confirming whether it had done the right thing.

  She couldn’t help but smile.

  The look reminded her of herself as a child—

  watching adults carefully, then awkwardly imitating their movements.

  “Put it here,” she said softly.

  Veyra went to fetch another.

  When the pile was sufficient, Arl cleared a patch of ground in a sheltered, slightly elevated spot.

  She arranged twigs and dry grass into a small bundle of tinder.

  From the pouch at her waist, she took out dried bark fibers—

  something she carried for emergencies.

  The flint struck in her hand, scattering small sparks.

  After several attempts, a faint red glow caught at the fiber’s edge.

  She leaned down and breathed gently.

  The glow widened. A thin tongue of flame emerged,

  then climbed onto the twigs.

  The fire took.

  She sat beside it and first removed her outer garment, wringing out the water.

  Drops fell from the hem onto the earth.

  The soaked fabric was spread across a stone to dry.

  She moved closer to the flames, letting warmth gradually return to her body.

  Veyra settled on the other side of the fire.

  Firelight flickered across its fur,

  gold and red shifting softly with each breath.

  It occasionally looked up at her, then back at the flames.

  Not in vigilance.

  More like company.

  Arl reached out and gently pressed her hand against its neck.

  “Good work.”

  Veyra did not move, only leaned slightly closer.

  The fire crackled.

  The lake beyond reflected its light.

  When the flames steadied, Arl placed the charred wood on a flat stone nearby.

  Heat slowly drove away the surface moisture. The blackened exterior began to dry and crack.

  She lowered her gaze.

  Under the firelight, the obscured markings gradually became clearer.

  They were not natural burn fractures.

  They were carved.

  The cuts were shallow, the lines simple—like a mark of some kind.

  And around those marks, the wood grain remained intact.

  The rings were not broken; the pattern extended outward, as if it had never been meant to be separated.

  If the grain truly continued—

  then it must have come from one of the ancient trees.

  When her clothes were dry, she would look again.

  The fire burned steadily.

  The damp garment no longer dripped, only occasionally releasing a stray drop that the earth quickly absorbed.

  Arl held her hands out toward the heat, feeling warmth seep slowly into her fingers. At first there was only a prickling numbness. Then, gradually, warmth returned.

  Time moved within the fire.

  Small branches burned down and collapsed into ash. She occasionally nudged the wood to let air pass through, and the flames brightened again.

  The lake no longer shone as sharply. The sun shifted position, softening the light across the water. The fish moved more slowly than before, as if settling with the afternoon warmth.

  Veyra lay on the other side of the fire, chin resting on its forepaws. At first it remained alert, watching the surroundings. After a while, its breathing grew even. One ear twitched occasionally, but it did not rise.

  Arl turned her garment over. The fabric was no longer heavy, its edges stiffening slightly as it dried.

  She did not hurry.

  Waiting was also a kind of action.

  Firelight traced the side of her face. The wooden piece rested quietly nearby. As the moisture evaporated, the grain grew clearer still.

  Wind passed along the lakeshore, carrying the scent of water and grass.

  She sat, watching the fire, watching time pass without noticing.

  At last, warmth returned to both body and clothing. She dressed, gathered her gear, and walked with Veyra once more toward the ancient trees.

  Arl looked up at the nearest one.

  As before—

  hollows of varying sizes, differing depths.

  This time, she looked more closely.

  The grain at the edge of each hollow did not appear randomly torn.

  It looked like continuation cut short.

  She stepped forward with the wooden piece.

  She held it against the first hollow.

  The grain did not align.

  She was not disappointed. She moved to the next.

  The second. The third—

  Until she reached the shorter, sturdier tree on the eastern side of the lake.

  On that side, the golden fish were most densely gathered.

  And the wood, dried by firelight, carried a faint warm tint.

  She crouched and brought the piece close to the hollow.

  This time—

  The rings began to align.

  Not perfectly seamless, but enough to see the direction continuing.

  She adjusted the angle slightly. Rotated it slowly.

  The curved edge fit.

  The wood slid inward along its grain and stopped.

  As if it had always belonged there.

  A perfect fit.

  She tried to pull it out.

  It did not move.

  She pulled harder—

  The piece remained unmoved, as though it had rejoined the trunk entirely.

  It was not stuck.

  It had returned.

  Unless external force shook the entire tree, it would not separate again.

  Arl withdrew her hand and looked quietly at the mark that was no longer out of place.

  After a moment, she turned toward the stele.

  Almost unconsciously, she searched its surface for a pattern similar to the carving on the wood.

  There—

  At the lower left corner, near the back, half-hidden by weeds—

  A small engraved symbol.

  It closely resembled the carving on the wooden piece.

  Only more complete.

  She crouched and brushed aside the grass.

  The fish in the lake.

  The tint on the wood.

  The carving on the stone.

  Color.

  Grain.

  Position.

  She found no conclusion.

  Yet a correspondence was forming.

  She looked back at the lake.

  The eastern fish shimmered gold.

  Then—

  This one represented gold.

  She did not rush to confirm it.

  But she knew one thing.

  There would not be only one piece.

  If nothing unexpected occurred, the remaining nine must also lie scattered somewhere along this shore, waiting to be returned.

  She did not know what restoring them would bring.

  Nor whether anyone had done the same before.

  But if it belonged there—

  Then returning it was the only reasonable choice.

  So she stayed.

  On the first day, she searched slowly along the eastern shore.

  In a pile of gravel beside a thicket, a patch of shadow sat strangely against its surroundings.

  Not stone.

  A small corner dulled by dust.

  She crouched and brushed the pebbles aside.

  The second piece of wood lay quietly within.

  This one bore no trace of charring.

  Its surface held a faint violet tint, as if it had been brushed by dusk.

  She closed her fingers around it and lifted her gaze toward the lake.

  Before the ancient tree on the western side, fish were gradually gathering.

  Beneath the water, a similar hue drifted—

  violet interwoven with gray, appearing and fading with the light.

  She did not move at once.

  She only stood and watched for a while.

  Then she turned and walked along the shore toward the west.

  The ancient tree there was shorter than the one in the east,

  but its branches were denser.

  She tested the hollows one by one.

  The first—its grain misaligned.

  The second—the curve was close, yet a faint fracture interrupted the flow.

  Until the third—

  The direction of the rings began to overlap.

  She adjusted the angle slightly.

  The wooden piece slid along its original grain and settled into place.

  No sound.

  Only the steady feeling of something returning.

  She stepped back.

  The fish on the lake did not stir.

  The wind continued to blow from the same direction.

  Nothing differed from yesterday.

  Except that along this shore, one more discordant color had vanished.

  She did not leave immediately.

  Her gaze lingered on the tree that had just accepted the piece.

  With the violet trace gone, the bark looked whole—

  as though the wood had never been removed.

  Just as she turned to go—

  A faint, brittle sound came from near her feet.

  She looked down.

  Beneath the dry leaves, a cool glint reflected the light.

  She brushed aside the fallen leaves and twigs.

  The third piece lay nestled within the tangle of roots.

  This one carried a faint silver sheen.

  Not like paint applied to its surface—

  More as if the grain itself had been infused with light.

  She picked it up but did not look at the lake at once.

  Instead, she studied the fine lines in her hand.

  Only then did she raise her head.

  On the far side of the water, a silver school drifted slowly along the northern bank.

  Light fractured across the surface into small rippling shards.

  She walked along the shore.

  This time, she hardly hesitated.

  The first hollow was already close.

  The grain tested the fit.

  She turned the angle gently.

  The wood slid in.

  She stepped back, letting her gaze rest between tree and lake for a moment.

  The third piece had returned too easily.

  And suddenly she understood—

  These fragments were not deliberately hidden.

  They were simply scattered.

  Waiting to be seen.

  On the second day, Arl turned toward the northern shallows.

  There, the water flowed more gently. Pale arcs of sand curved along the edge where sediment had gathered.

  While shifting branches washed ashore, she noticed half a corner buried in damp sand.

  This piece leaned toward a colder shade, nearly colorless gray.

  She wiped away the mud and looked out at the lake.

  In the northern waters, the fish shimmered in pale blue-silver.

  The pattern seemed to hold.

  She walked toward the corresponding ancient tree.

  The first hollow—

  The grain was close, but a thin misalignment broke the continuity.

  She did not pause.

  She rotated it slightly. Pressed it closer.

  The rings still refused to join.

  It was not a difference too subtle to see.

  It was simply the wrong direction.

  She stood there for a moment.

  Wind moved through the branches; shadows shifted slowly across the trunk.

  She withdrew the piece.

  Turned to the next tree.

  This time, she did not look at the lake first.

  She lowered her gaze and let her fingertips trace the curve along the wood’s edge.

  In her mind, the grain reassembled itself.

  The second hollow.

  She pressed it in place.

  The rings finally continued.

  The wood slid inward.

  Again, without sound.

  But that brief hesitation lingered—

  A reminder.

  Color was only a clue.

  Not the answer.

  In the days that followed, she no longer relied on the colors of the lake.

  Sometimes the fragments were buried in mud.

  Sometimes lodged deep within vines.

  Sometimes resting plainly beside roots, veiled by fallen leaves.

  One by one, she returned them.

  By the time the rings aligned, she no longer needed to look up for confirmation.

  Sunrise followed sunset.

  The fire flared and died.

  The lake remained calm.

  The wooden pieces, one after another, disappeared into the trunks.

  Veyra’s footprints overlapped with hers in the soil,

  then were gradually erased by wind.

  The final piece rested high upon the tallest ancient tree.

  Its trunk rose straight upward, branches nearly obscuring the sky.

  Arl secured a length of vine and climbed step by step along the rough bark.

  The wind was sharper above.

  Her arms began to ache. The skin along her fingers reddened where bark scraped against it.

  The hollow lay at the center of the trunk—not off to one side—

  yet so high it seemed never meant to be touched.

  She freed one hand and pressed the wooden piece near.

  The first push failed.

  The edge fit so tightly there was barely any space.

  She drew a breath and shifted her weight forward.

  The grain of the fragment met the rings of the trunk with an almost unsettling completeness—

  As though it had never truly left.

  She adjusted the angle slowly.

  Pushed once more.

  This time it did not slide.

  It set.

  Not with motion—

  But with return.

  No sound.

  No tremor.

  Only that subtle sensation of joining—

  like a seam being stitched closed.

  She remained holding the vine, not descending at once.

  The lake below felt unnaturally quiet.

  The fish that had once gathered by color now drifted without separation.

  Silver and blue. Violet and gray.

  Interwoven beneath the surface.

  As though they had always belonged together.

  When she looked down again, she saw the soil near the roots of the ancient tree shifting.

  Sand loosened.

  Earth sank inward at one point.

  A low opening emerged.

  No light.

  No call.

  Only uncovered.

  The wind passed through the treetops.

  And she understood.

  The wooden pieces had never been a riddle.

  Only something displaced.

  And what she had done—

  Was simply return them.

  is sometimes only a matter of alignment.

  it was meant to be.