The boy ran along the riverbank, gripping a stick. His feet slipped past bodies, some burning, some floating in the water. He kept calling for his mother, “amma, amma,” his voice breaking with panic. He tripped and hit his head against a rock carved with sacred symbols. Blood ran down his forehead, blinding one eye. He tried to stop the bleeding with his shaking hand and kept moving.

Behind him, drops of blood marked his path. Slung over his shoulder was a bag holding a strange pair: a finch and a cobra, rustling softly as he ran. His mother was nowhere to be seen, no matter how loudly he called. Finally, he stopped, bent over, and struggled to breathe. The river, once comforting, now felt like his only way out. His head spun, and shapes followed him, figures he once cared for, now watching him in silence.

As daylight faded, boats returned to shore and bats filled the sky. Evening prayers ended, but his search did not. Each time he thought he saw his mother, she vanished. Weak and unsteady, he lost his balance and fell into the river. Under the moonlight, the water closed over him, and bubbles rose like a quiet goodbye.