It started, as most strange things in Mau's life did—
Without permission.
The afternoon was slow, the kind that stretched lazily across the barrio like a cat refusing to move. Heat settled on rooftops, cicadas hummed without pause, and even Lira had finally gone quiet—half-asleep under the shade of a mango tree.
Mau sat on the ground with a stick in her hand.
She wasn't thinking.
That was important.
Because whenever she didn't think—
Her hands… did.
Lines formed in the dirt.
At first, simple curves. Then sharper angles. Then—
Structure.
Layered patterns. Symmetry. Flow.
Fabric that didn't exist here.
Cuts that didn't belong to the barrio.
A dress, if one looked closely enough—but not the kind worn for fiestas or weddings.
Something… refined.
Intentional.
Powerful.
Lira stirred beside her, squinting at the drawing. "What is that?"
Mau blinked, as if waking from a dream. "Hmm?"
"That. On the ground. Did you just invent rich people clothes again?"
Mau glanced down.
Her hand stilled.
"…I guess," she said lightly, though her chest tightened in a way she didn't understand.
Lira sat up fully now, brushing leaves from her hair. "No, seriously—who taught you that? That's not normal drawing."
Mau shrugged. "Maybe I saw it somewhere."
"In the forest?" Lira deadpanned. "Did the trees start hosting fashion shows?"
Mau's lips twitched faintly. "You'd be surprised. They have excellent taste."
But she erased the drawing anyway.
Quickly.
Before she could look at it too long.
Before it started to feel familiar.
—
That evening, the forest carried a different kind of quiet.
Not peaceful.
Not calm.
…Watching.
Mau sat outside the hut, a worn guitar resting across her lap. It had been found years ago—abandoned, half-broken, missing a string.
She fixed it.
Without knowing how.
"Play," Tay Eming said from behind her.
Mau hesitated.
"I don't think I'm—"
"Play."
She exhaled softly.
Then let her fingers move.
The first note was tentative.
The second—
Certain.
And then—
Music unfolded.
Not the simple strumming of a beginner.
Not hesitant.
Not searching.
It flowed—melody weaving into rhythm like it had always been there, like her hands were remembering something her mind had forgotten.
Tay Eming did not interrupt.
He did not speak.
But his gaze deepened.
Because this—
This was not learned.
This was… inherited.
Mau stopped abruptly, her fingers hovering over the strings.
The silence that followed felt louder than the music.
"I didn't learn that," she said quietly.
"No," Tay agreed.
Her grip tightened slightly on the guitar.
"Then where did it come from?"
Tay Eming did not answer immediately.
The forest shifted around them, leaves whispering secrets they refused to share.
"…From a place that has not forgotten you," he said at last.
Mau frowned faintly. "That's not an answer."
"It is the only one I have."
She looked down at her hands.
They didn't look special.
Didn't look different.
But they did things—
Things she couldn't explain.
"…I don't like it," she admitted softly.
"Why?"
"Because it feels like I'm remembering a life I never lived."
Tay Eming's voice was quiet.
"Or one that was taken."
Mau didn't respond.
Because something about that—
Felt too close to truth.
—
Later that night, sleep didn't come easily.
Mau lay awake, staring at the ceiling as shadows stretched and shifted with the flicker of dying firelight.
Her fingers moved unconsciously against her palm.
Tracing.
Patterns.
Designs.
Music.
Movement.
Always movement.
Her body didn't forget.
Even if her mind did.
And somewhere deep inside her—
A question began to take shape.
Not loud.
Not demanding.
But persistent.
If I don't belong here…
Then where do I belong?
—
The forest did not answer.
But it didn't stay silent either.