The stranger slept through the night and into the next day.Amara had managed, with much effort, to carry him home. Her arms still ached, her feet blistered, but she did not regret it. She had laid him on a mat beside the hearth, covered him with her old wool blanket, and sat by his side until morning.
When dawn broke, she studied him in the pale light. His face was calm now, his breathing even, though he looked as if he had walked a hundred miles without rest. His hair, dark as river stones, fell across his forehead, and there was something almost peaceful about him — something that made the small room feel warmer.
Her mother stirred from the corner bed, her voice weak but sharp with curiosity."Amara… who is that?"
"I found him near the river," Amara answered softly, bringing her a cup of warm water. "He was hurt. I couldn't leave him there."
Her mother frowned. "You bring strangers home now? You know what the people will say."
"I don't care what they say," Amara replied. "He needed help. And besides…" she hesitated, glancing back at him. "There was something strange about him, Mother. The ground where he lay—it wasn't dry anymore. The grass was green. Even the river moved again."
Her mother's eyes widened, but she said nothing more. Only the sound of wind brushed against the roof, whistling through the old thatch.
By mid-morning, word had already spread. Villagers began to appear outside Amara's house, whispering, pointing, speculating.Old Mara, the baker's wife, leaned on her cane and muttered, "Another wanderer come to take what little we have."Young Daro, always eager for trouble, laughed. "Maybe he's one of those bandits from the hills."And someone else added in a hushed tone, "Or worse — a cursed one. Didn't you see the mark on his hand? The flame?"
Amara ignored them all. She kept the door shut and continued to tend to her guest.
By evening, he awoke. His eyes — clear and light like dawn — opened slowly, blinking against the dim room. When he spoke, his voice was soft, almost melodic, though it trembled with weariness."Where am I?"
"In my home," Amara said, offering him a bowl of warm broth. "You were hurt. I found you near the river."
He looked at her as though seeing something far away through her face. Then he smiled faintly. "You brought me back. Thank you."
"What happened to you?" she asked, unable to hide her curiosity.
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if searching for a memory that refused to return. "I don't know," he said at last. "Only that I was walking toward something… something bright. And then there was pain, and darkness. When I awoke, you were there."
"What's your name?"
"Lior," he said simply. "It means light."
The word filled the small room with quiet wonder. It suited him.
For several days, Lior stayed with them. He healed quickly, though his strength returned slowly. He spoke little, but when he did, his words carried a calmness that made even the air seem softer. He helped Amara fetch water, fixed the broken fence outside, and hummed gentle melodies in a language she didn't know.
The villagers continued to gossip. Some came secretly to peer through her window. One afternoon, a child named Sera fell while running by the river and cut her leg deeply. Amara and Lior were the first to reach her. Lior knelt, touched the wound, and whispered something. Before their eyes, the bleeding slowed, and within minutes, the pain seemed to fade.
By nightfall, the whole village knew.
"Did you hear? The stranger healed Sera!""No, I saw it myself — he laid his hand on her and the bleeding stopped.""Impossible! Only the gods can heal.""Then perhaps the gods sent him."
The whispers turned from suspicion to awe, though not everyone was pleased.
At the village center, Elder Taren, a man of stern eyes and rigid faith, listened in silence as people murmured about miracles. "Miracles," he said finally, his voice heavy with doubt. "Do not be so easily deceived. Light that blinds can also burn. Remember what happens when men play gods."
Yet, that night, something strange happened again. The air felt warmer, and the faint trickle of the river grew into a gentle flow. Frogs croaked for the first time in months. The scent of wet soil filled the valley.
Amara stood outside her home, staring in disbelief. "The river's alive again," she whispered.
Lior joined her quietly. "The earth remembers kindness," he said.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
He looked toward the hills, where the stars shimmered faintly. "The world listens to the hearts of those who care. Every act of love sends light into the dark — like fireflies that never die."
Amara turned to him, her voice barely above a whisper. "Then maybe you are one of them. A light."
Lior smiled faintly, his eyes soft and knowing. "The light does not belong to me alone. It belongs to everyone who still believes in it."
For a long moment, they stood in silence, watching the river move beneath the starlit sky. And though neither spoke another word, both felt it — that fragile, sacred thing rising between them and the world around them.
Hope.