Prologue

Precious drops

Even after all this time, they still honour the vanishing act. When the moon is just right and the stars as bright as any you’ve seen - ppuufffftttt! - gone. Into the jungle they disappear.

They leave behind empty kitchens and quiet fires curling up sandalwood prayers and lists of chores long enough to wear like scarves of unwanted work. They go barefoot and lantern-lit, deeper and deeper in, toward the lights that flicker far in the distance.

They return—always—before dawn, their eyes tired but softer, their tempers cooled, as if they’d remembered something so important that all their troubles had been dissolved.

They never speak of where they go or what they see.

Not even to each other.

Some say it’s a tradition — something old and half-forgotten, like the verses we once sang before every meal. Others call it superstition - that to speak of such magic might do such disservice as to scare it away forever.

So they keep it to themselves. Clutch it tight to their hearts that no wind may shake it and no sun may scorch such precious shoots.

But there are a few of us who know what they try and hold so close. Despite every promise and unwritten law, we found out long before we should have.

Because we were there.

One night, long ago, when the world was only just beginning to grow heavier in my hands, I was chosen to stay behind and look after the others. A great honour, they said. A test of responsibility. I didn’t feel honoured, just scared and alone.

But that night of vanishings saw things lifted and changed in ways only the most spectacular sunrise can describe.

I won’t tell you how, not exactly. Not all at once. Some things are too hallowed to give away in floods.

So, no. You’ll have drops. Drop after drop until soon enough you shall find yourself full.

For some truths need silence to grow, the breath between questions to bloom.

What I can tell you is this:

There was a book that didn’t need a voice to speak.

There were elephants made of memory.

There was a girl who believed in magic before anyone else.

There was a boy who didn’t believe in anything—until he did.

And there was a dog who always knew the way.

There was a clearing in the jungle, lit by the soft fire of a thousand stories, and a woman whose eyes held you under an ocean of time while the adults returned their misgivings.

And there was courage.

Small at first. But growing.

Just like you.

So if you are holding this now, wondering whether the world is still worth believing in —

I am telling you quietly:

It is.

So when the moon is just right, the stars beyond bright...

The shadows shift and the trees make way...

If the night feels like it’s holding its breath...

And the lights flicker far in the distance...

Fix your eyes, little one.

And push on.

Push on.