“The storm?—”
“We’ll make it,” I cut in, forcing a reassuring smile.
I’m not lying—I do need to update my notes. But the real reason I want to get back tonight is so I can slip away at first light. If the yogis won’t tell me the location, and if Sita refuses to cross the river, then I’ll have no choice but to do it alone.
And I will.
I refuse to leave these mountains without that plant. I’m notscared of the weather or the terrain. And the stories about the Migoi are just that—stories. The same kind of legend as Bigfoot back home. A bear print stretched in melting snow, a tuft of fur caught on a branch that could belong to anything. The woodpile outside Sita’s house? Probably the work of a neighbor, someone who didn’t want to draw attention to their charity.
Nothing more than superstition or folklore, I reassure myself. If I sneak out early, I’ll have a few hours to explore before needing to return. It’s definitely reckless. Probably dangerous. But it’s the only plan I have, cobbled together from desperation and the small flickering flame of hope that refuses to die.
Once I get my hands on that plant, everything else will fall into place. I’ll worry about anything else after that. After all, it’s better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.
I mentally run through what I’ll need: my collection kit, some food, my first aid kit, extra layers. I can do this. Ihaveto do this.
Sita interrupts my silent checklist, again urging me to stay the night at the ashram, but I shake my head. If we stay, I’ll lose another day.
“We’ll make it back before the worst of the storm,” I insist. “It’s all downhill from here, so it will be faster. We have plenty of time to get back. Please, Sita.”
I stare at her with imploring eyes, the sting of tears pricking behind my lids. I blink past the shimmer, and one lone tear falls down my cheek.
She studies me for a long moment, her gaze tracking the pitiful drop, then nods with a sigh.
We thank our hosts, and by the time we step outside, the mountain is even colder. The sky has shifted from vast and endless to low and oppressive, a heavy gray shroud hanging over the peaks. The quiet is eerie, a hush that presses in around us like the whole world is holding its breath.
We descend as fast as we can, our boots crunching over frost-hardened earth. But despite our hurry, halfway down the trail, the first flakes begin to fall. My desperation has turned me reckless. Just as we lose sight of the ashram behind us, the snow starts falling in earnest.
At first, it seems harmless—delicate flurries dancing in the wind. But within minutes, the snowfall thickens, transforming the landscape into an eerie, shifting blur of white.
This isn’t like the snowstorms I know. This falls like monsoon rain. Thick. Heavy. Consuming.
The path quickly vanishes beneath the rapidly accumulating snow. I push forward faster, heart hammering. We have to make it back before this storm buries us. I match her steps, watching the way she moves. Planting my feet in the footsteps she leaves.
Sita stops and faces me. “Dahlia, we’re more than halfway between the ashram and home. I think we should keep going, since downhill will be easier in the snow.”
I have never seen her hesitate before. Never seen her uncertain. That chills me even more than the cold surrounding us.
“I’m so sorry I pushed us to go,” I apologize.
“No need to apologize, I agreed. Let’s focus on getting home as quickly and safely as we can,” she says.
She squeezes my arms and gives me a reassuring smile, but I see the concern lining her face. She’s lived in these mountains all of her life. She knows we are going to have a hard time, but I can tell she is trying not to scare me.
Eyes locked on the trail ahead, I push forward as fast as I dare, carefully planting each step to avoid twisting an ankle or tumbling on the steep, slippery descent.
Within the hour, the temperature plummets. I stick close to Sita, her vibrant jacket a beacon of color in an otherwise blinding sea of white. The wind bites at my face, forcing me to pull my hood lower in a futile attempt to shield myself from the freezing assault.
My fingers and toes throb with the sharp sting of encroaching numbness. I curl my hands into fists and open them over and over, trying to keep the blood flowing, but every movement seems to happen just a little slower than the last.
The snow swirls so thickly I can barely make out Sita’s form just ahead of me. I’m so focused on staring intently at her jacket that my numb foot stumbles, skidding off a hidden rock. I let out a startled yelp and look down as I fight to steady myself. The second it takes to regain my balance is enough—I look back up and realize Sita has vanished into the storm.
She’s gone. There’s nothing but a shifting, swirling void of white. I blink hard, stepping forward, scanning for any sign of her. But there is nothing but a snowglobe world.
I stop dead, breath freezing in my lungs.
“Sita?” I call out. She was right there. Right there!
But there’s no response.
