RIVA
The One Who Knows What Repeats
No record shows when Riva arrived at the orphanage.
No document carries her birth name.
No one remembers her being brought there.
She simply has always been.
Riva is quiet, observant, and unsettling in ways that cannot be explained. Shadows seem to linger longer around her, and even laughter fades when she enters a room. The caretakers say she has an old gaze—one that looks as if it has already seen tomorrow.
Her power is not vision, but recognition.
Riva feels when events are about to repeat—conversations, accidents, betrayals, even deaths. A tightening in her chest, a chill behind the eyes, a sense of déjà vu so sharp it borders on pain. She cannot see the future, only the certainty that something has happened before… and will happen again.
Because of this, Riva avoids attachment. She knows how moments end before they begin.
The other children whisper that she carries darkness with her.
They are not entirely wrong.
What none of them know is that Riva's ability is not passive. It is a residual echo—a sign that her existence is out of sync with time itself. Something about her should not be repeating.
And somewhere beyond the orphanage walls, the world is beginning to notice.
PARNA
The One the Earth Answers
Parna's name means leaf, and like a leaf, he is rarely noticed—until the moment he moves.
He is soft-spoken, observant, and carries an unassuming warmth that makes people lower their guard without realizing it. Parna smiles easily, listens more than he speaks, and often seems out of place in tense or dangerous moments—too calm, too kind, too ordinary.
But nature never ignores him.
When Parna is in need—truly in need—the world responds in quiet ways. Roots loosen hardened ground. Branches bend instead of breaking. Winds shift just enough to protect him. Animals pause, watching, as if waiting for instruction that never comes.
He does not command nature.
He is recognized by it.
His power activates only when his intent is genuine—never out of anger, never for dominance. Because of this, Parna often doubts himself. He calls himself lucky. Others call him harmless.
They are mistaken.
Beneath his gentle demeanor lies a deep, instinctive awareness—as though the land itself whispers warnings only he can hear. He senses when places are unsafe, when paths should not be taken, when something old beneath the soil has begun to stir.
Parna is a helper by nature, a quiet supporter who stands behind rather than in front. Yet when everything collapses, he is often the one still standing—shielded by forces older than memory.
> Leaves fall.
Roots endure.
EVA
The One Who Is Always Being Guided
Eva has lived her entire life in a small, quiet house with her grandmother, listening to stories no one else remembers hearing.
Every night, her grandmother speaks of a lost kingdom—its roads, its gates, its fall. Eva never questions how the stories are told with such precision. She assumes they are only stories. Comforting ones. Meant to make the world feel larger than it is.
On Eva's bedside table lies an old compass.
It has no markings of any known land. Its glass is scratched, its metal warm to the touch. The needle does not point north. It never has.
The compass moves only when Eva does.
Whenever she feels lost—afraid, heartbroken, or uncertain—the needle shifts, pointing her toward a direction she does not consciously understand. It has led her away from danger, toward unexpected meetings, and through moments she cannot later explain.
Eva believes the compass belongs to her grandmother.
Her grandmother believes it belongs to Eva.
Despite her gentle demeanor, Eva carries a quiet resilience. She listens more than she speaks, observes details others overlook, and feels an unshakable pull toward paths she has never walked before. When sadness finds her, the compass grows warm in her palm—as if reminding her she is not alone.
What Eva does not know is that the kingdom in her grandmother's stories was real.
And the compass is not guiding her through the world—
It is guiding her back.
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AARVI
The One Who Carries What Was Left Behind
Aarvi is light in places where light should not exist.
She laughs easily, speaks freely, and has a habit of turning tense moments into something softer without trying. Even after loss, she moves forward—carrying warmth like a quiet defiance against the world's weight.
When Aarvi was eighteen, her uncle died unexpectedly.
Before he passed, he pressed a small, sealed box into her hands and said only one thing:
> "When you find the compass, open this."
She didn't ask questions.
She never does when things feel important.
The box has never been opened.
It is old, heavier than it looks, and carved with unknown signs and motifs—circles within triangles, broken lines, symbols that feel familiar but cannot be placed. Sometimes the markings seem sharper. Sometimes worn, as if reacting to time itself.
Aarvi does not know what the compass is.
She does not know why the box hums faintly when she feels unusually happy—or unusually afraid.
Unlike the others, Aarvi does not feel cursed or chosen. She feels lucky. And perhaps that is the most dangerous thing of all.
Her positivity is not ignorance—it is resilience. A refusal to let darkness define her. Yet, in moments of stillness, she senses that her joy is not accidental. That it exists for a reason.
Somewhere, Eva's compass will begin to spin wildly.
And when it does, Aarvi's box will finally unlock itself.
> Aarvi is not a guide.
She is not a warning.
She is the key that was hidden in plain sight.