Zaar memories #4
V lives near the drying arch where the Whites hang roots.
At first, they kept their distance — an outsider, smooth, with a scar on her ankle clearly not from this soil.
But she washed her hands before taking food.
She didn't ask questions. She filled the empty spaces.
She didn't try to fit in — she simply fit.
Like a pattern that only appears under heat.
She keeps a diary. But she doesn't write; she scratches symbols onto the inside of her door.
The symbols aren't letters, but... tactile.
Each stroke — the sensation of the body in a moment of truth.
They can't be read. You can only press your skin against them and remember something that isn't yours.
MIRROR ON THE WATER
Early in the morning, when the valley is still blue before color,
V walks barefoot to the spring,
sits on a warm stone,
and watches herself in the water.
But the reflection lags.
She moves — and the face in the water doesn't immediately follow.
And at some point, it doesn't follow at all.
In the reflection — a different woman. In uniform.
short hair, a strong gaze.
The background — concrete. Signal lights.
This is not a dream. Not a vision. It is an echo.
HER PAST: UNSPOKEN. BUT FELT
She knows she has killed. Not from passion. From necessity.
But the lives of those she killed — now live inside her.
And each of their deaths is her constant advisor.
Today a child approached her.
One of the Whites. Eyes like the desert.
He said:
“Your voice sounds like you know how to talk to animals.”
She smiled, but did not answer.
At night, she slept in a fetal position, as if she wanted to return.
And a voice came to her in a dream, one without language:
"You haven't forgotten who you are.
You've forgotten why you didn't leave back then."
She woke up.
And heard someone singing, far away in the rock.
But they were singing inward, into themself.
Guttural. Silent. As if preparing for the final leap.