The boy's name was Idris.
He led Aman through a winding passage lit by glowing roots woven into the cavern walls. The air pulsed with ancient calm, like a temple carved from the heartbeat of the earth itself. Idris didn't speak much—he didn't need to. His presence echoed something familiar, like a rhythm Aman had always known but never heard.
At the far end of the corridor, they stepped into what looked like an underground oasis—lush greenery blooming from stone, a thousand fireflies orbiting a crystal mango tree taller than any Aman had ever seen. Idris gestured upward, where ancient glyphs shimmered across the ceiling like constellations reimagined.
"This," he said, "is the Echoing Grove. Only those who've carried a living seed can hear it."
Aman closed his eyes.
At first—nothing. Then, a whisper. Not a voice, but a resonance. Images poured into his thoughts: each guardian who had ever lived, planting mangoes in war zones, deserts, Arctic outposts. Healing soldiers, bridging peace talks, returning memory to the lost.
One guardian had even planted a mango tree on the International Space Station—though the tree didn't bear fruit, it bloomed once, during a solar flare, and turned blue as the stars.
Aman gasped. The grove was a memory archive. Every seed was encoded with history—not just knowledge, but wisdom.
Then the resonance shifted. A new presence approached: Meera. But not the Meera he knew. This one wore desert robes and bore a staff made of mango bark and copper.
"You're seeing echoes of the future now," Idris whispered. "That's not her yet—it's her becoming."
Suddenly, the entire grove dimmed, the leaves rustling with unease.
Something—or someone—had entered the outer chamber.
Idris looked up sharply. "The Witherers have followed your trail."
And just like that, the roots began to rise.