Asoka came to believe, over time, that whoever had taken her money had not done so by chance. The thought did not arrive all at once. It settled slowly, returning to her during long hours of work, while her hands were busy and her mind had room to wander. The coins had been taken at a moment when they mattered most, when they were no longer just savings but a promise she had begun to trust. That, more than the loss itself, troubled her.
It felt as though someone had reached into her life and closed a door she had only just begun to open.
She did not know who would wish such a thing upon her, nor why. Perhaps it was foolish to think the theft meant anything beyond greed. Yet the idea refused to leave her. It followed her through the fields, into the shop, and back home at night. Still, she did not speak of it. In her experience, speaking too much only brought questions one could not answer.
After several days of searching and quiet inquiries, she made a decision. She would not look for the money again. Whatever had been lost was gone, and chasing after it would only waste the little time she had. Better, she thought, to begin again. Time spent working was time not spent worrying.
So she changed her days.
She rose earlier than before and filled every hour with labor. She worked her land, tended her animals, and offered her strength where it was needed. She took on tasks others avoided—heavy loads, long walks, work that paid little but demanded much. It was tiring, but it gave her something solid to hold onto. Each finished task reminded her that she was still capable, still standing.
She began saving again, carefully this time. Not all in one place. She hid small amounts wherever she could, trusting her memory to keep them safe. It was slower, but it felt wiser. She told herself that starting over did not mean surrendering her dreams. It only meant they would take longer.
The settlement itself had not changed, and yet it no longer felt quite the same to her.
People spoke more quietly than they once had. Conversations ended when footsteps approached. Certain names were said without detail, as if explanation itself were discouraged. When someone was summoned by the elders, no one asked why. No one waited to hear what had been discussed. The person simply returned, often subdued, and life continued as before.
Asoka noticed that no one ever described the elders themselves. Not their expressions, not their manner. Only their authority.
She remembered, vaguely, that there had been a time when the elders met openly, seated in view of those who came before them. Now, those called were led behind heavy curtains in the council chamber. Thick cloth that blocked sight and muffled sound. Those summoned were instructed to stand still, to speak only when addressed, and to leave once dismissed.
Asoka had never been called herself, but she had seen others return pale and quiet. When asked what had been said, they either shook their heads or answered vaguely, as though the details had slipped from their grasp. She assumed fear was the reason. Fear had a way of emptying the mind.
The church remained the visible authority—collecting tithes, overseeing land matters, marking holy days. Yet even the priests spoke carefully when the elders were mentioned. There were customs, they said, old agreements that maintained order. It was not for ordinary people to question such things.
Asoka did not question them aloud.
Still, there were moments that unsettled her. Small lapses that she could not explain. A thought she meant to finish but could not. A memory that felt blurred at the edges. She blamed exhaustion. She blamed grief. Long years of work and loss did that to a person.
Her sister's face, for instance.
She knew Elowen had existed. She knew she had loved her. But when she tried to recall details—her voice, her expressions—nothing came clearly. Only the weight of absence remained. The same was true of parts of her memories of her father. She remembered his kindness, his steadiness, but some moments were missing, as if time itself had worn them thin.
She told herself this was natural. People forgot things all the time.
At night, after her work was done, Asoka kept herself busy. She mended clothes, counted jars, cleaned surfaces already clean. She preferred movement to stillness. Stillness invited thought, and thought invited questions she was not ready to answer.
Before sleeping, she checked her doors and windows more than she once had. She did not know why. Nothing had happened to suggest danger. Still, the habit brought her some comfort, as though order itself could keep uncertainty at bay.
Lying in bed, she listened to the familiar sounds of the settlement settling into night—the distant bell, the wind moving through trees, the soft creak of wood. She reminded herself that she had endured much already. Loss, solitude, hardship. This was no different.
Whatever had taken her money, whatever quiet rules governed the lives of those around her, she would continue as she always had: working, saving, watching.
She did not yet know where this path would lead her. She did not yet sense how close the unseen had always been.
For now, she slept.
And the settlement, unchanged in appearance, held its silence.