Saroz never knew a world outside Thaku's voice. Every evening, after the meal, she carried her charpoy into the courtyard and waited for the lantern's light from Thaku's hut. It was the only sign that Thaku was awake and that Saroz could enter. 

“You are late,” Thaku always said when she entered. 

“You always repeat the same old stories,” Saroz replied, having no other answer. 

Most of Thaku's stories revealed a side of nature that held no lessons, only mysteries. During the day, villagers laughed at them, but as soon as night arrived, fear entered their hearts, as if those same stories would come whispering in their ears from the darkness. 

Saroz had carried Thaku's stories with her since she was a little girl. Even then, those stories found their way into her dreams. She did not know whether she feared those stories or loved them. 

She was awake for a long time on the charpoy in the courtyard. She disliked the evening star and the light from Thaku's hut because both announced that the night had arrived. As darkness deepened, she looked at the dusty sky and thought that the space between two stars would one day swallow everything. 

She closed her eyes, and Thaku's voice echoed inside her again. 

“When the night becomes darker, and the moon disappears behind the clouds, everything that carries a sound becomes silent. That is the time when the dark shadows descend from the moon and take away the girls who have reached their first Sarshod (the first menstrual cycle).” 

The first time Saroz heard it, she laughed. 

“You tell these stories to frighten us?” 

“I tell these stories because they were told to me.” Thaku smiled. “One day, you will tell the same stories.” 

“I will never.” 

The night fell on the village the same way it had fallen for a thousand years. The chirping of crickets from the nearby canal grew louder. Women made their last rounds to fetch water from the well. The smell of warm naan from the oven spread through the village. A dog barked in the distance and dissolved into silence. 

Saroz’s eyes remained fixed on Thakte-Rawan (Ursa Major). Thaku had taught her the names of the stars. She used to tell Saroz that those three stars in a line from Thakte-Rawan looked like the moles on her left cheek. Saroz frowned whenever she heard it, as if she did not believe her, but at night, whenever she looked at them, she unconsciously touched the three moles. 

A little light flickered from Thaku’s hut and disappeared. Saroz tried not to close her eyes. Her eyes searched in the darkness for something: a branch of a tree, a wall, a stone, anything she could hold on to. But the darkness had already swallowed everything.  

She listened for any sound that could bring her back to the village. The crickets had become distant. The dog had stopped barking. Even the wind seemed to have forgotten the trees. She remained awake, staring into the darkness, waiting for the night to pass. 

Then she felt a heavy weight on her chest. She forced her body to move to the other side, but nothing moved. She tried to move her hands across the bed, but no part of her body responded. 

At first, she saw only some bats perched upside down on the acacia tree. Soon, human faces appeared among them in the darkness. One of them looked at her, and its gaze held her. It descended from the tree like a leaf and landed on her chest. Its weight pressed against her body, and she felt the darkness grow heavier around her. She tried to move her hands, her legs, anything, but her body remained still. She wanted to scream, but her voice melted in her throat. 

It carried her away. When she looked down, the village lay beneath her. Some dim lights still flickered in the huts. Her heart trembled as she searched for the charpoy below, but she could not find herself. She felt as if she was hanging upside down from a tree, her waist held by something. She struggled against the grip, freed herself, and began to fall. 

With a long breath, Saroz awakened. She lay still on the bed and watched her breathing. As always, she told herself it was only a dream, but the uncertainty stayed with her.  

For the first time, she wondered if Thaku's stories were only stories. The shadow that had carried her away in her dream felt too close to the story she had heard about Thaku herself.  

The villagers whispered that Thaku had been taken by the dark shadows of the moon and returned carrying stories nobody had heard before. Nobody knew what had truly happened. 

Thaku never spoke about it. Whenever Saroz asked, she only told the story of how her grandfather had burnt the tree of the dark shadows. 

When Saroz asked if it had really happened, Thaku only said: “People forget, stories remember them.” 

Saroz turned her face towards the east. The seven stars stood above the acacia tree. Thaku had told her that four of them carried the dead man, followed by his mother, sister, and wife. In winter, among these stars, another small star appeared and disturbed their journey. 

Saroz wanted to believe they were only stars and nothing else, but that certainty did not last. She watched them until her breathing slowed, but sleep did not come. 

The charpoy creaked beneath her. A hen shifted inside its cage. The smell of soil and neem entered her nostrils. Somewhere, a dog barked and then became silent. The village fell quiet again. 

She did not sleep until morning. 

All day, Saroz avoided Thaku’s hut. She told herself dreams did not mean anything. Yet whenever she passed near the acacia tree, a coldness moved through her.  

But when night came, she found herself standing outside Thaku’s hut again. She wanted to tell her about the dream, about the weight on her chest and the darkness that had carried her away. For a moment, she stood there, unsure whether to enter. 

“You are late,” Thaku said without looking at her, her hands still touching the dough. 

“I was not hungry.” 

Thaku smiled. “You never come for food.” 

Saroz smiled faintly and sat near her. Silence filled the space between them. Only the branches of the tree moved outside. 

“Grandma.” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you believe in all these stories you tell?” 

Thaku stopped working the dough and looked at her. 

“I believe stories move along with people.” 

“That is not the answer to my question.” 

“Yes, I know.” 

Saroz lowered her eyes. “I saw something last night.” 

Thaku looked at her and waited. 

“It was only a dream,” Saroz said. 

“Dreams are stories too,” Thaku replied. “Sometimes they take things from each other.” 

She broke a small piece of warm naan and placed it on Saroz’s palm. 

“Is it true that my grandfather burnt the tree of dark shadows?” 

Thaku laughed softly. 

“I was not there.” 

“Then how do you know it?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Saroz looked at her. “If you don’t know, why do you tell this story at all?” 

“People forget what happened.” Thaku looked directly into her eyes. “Stories remember them.” 

A dog started barking outside. The lantern flame grew weaker inside the hut, and Saroz stood up. 

“I am going.” 

Thaku nodded. “Get some sleep.” 

Saroz stepped out of the hut. The voices of the village slowly faded into silence. She carried her charpoy back to the courtyard and lay down, looking at the sky. 

The Thakte Rawan hung higher in the sky that night.  

As darkness deepened, Saroz's eyes found the small star beside one of them. Thaku had named it Sarposh, the veiled star. 

“Sarposh appears only when a soul is marked,” Thaku had said. “Many people cannot see it, but when someone sees it, they should know the death of a storyteller is near.” 

Saroz touched the moles on her cheek. Her finger stopped. 

A sound came from Thaku’s hut. She lifted her head. Around the hut, small shadows moved like children playing in the darkness. They gathered near the walls, climbed over the roof, and surrounded the lantern. 

Saroz tried to call Thaku’s name, but her voice disappeared before it left her throat. 

The shadows entered the hut. The lantern went out. 

For a moment, everything became silent. Then the shadows rose into the sky, carrying Thaku with them. 

“Thaku!” 

“Thaku!” 

She stood calling her name, then ran towards Thaku’s hut. 

Before entering, she smelled blood. 

She pulled the door open. All the bats flew out of the hut and disappeared into the darkness. 

Thaku was lying in the centre of the hut. Her clothes were soaked with blood, and deep scratches covered her arms and face. The room was silent except for Saroz’s breathing. 

She knelt beside her and held her hand.  

Thaku opened her eyes. She looked behind Saroz as if she was listening to someone. Then she smiled. 

“People need stories from you,” she whispered. 

Saroz brought her ear closer.

“I can’t tell stories like you do.” 

“You can.” 

Thaku’s fingers tightened around her hand. 

“Stories have grown inside you for centuries.” 

Her fingers slowly softened, but her eyes remained fixed on Saroz. Then, all at once, her eyes became empty. 

Outside, the whispers grew louder, and by morning every soul in the village knew Thaku was no more. 

An old man standing near her body shook his head. 

“She died and took the stories with her.” 

Nobody answered. 

That first night after Thaku’s death, her courtyard remained dark. The children stood there for a while, looking towards the hut, waiting for the lantern to burn again. 

One of them looked at Saroz. 

“Who will tell us the stories about the moon?” 

Saroz lowered her eyes. She said nothing for a long time. 

Then she lifted her head and looked towards the Thakte Rawan. The seven stars were shining above, but she felt that the hidden star had appeared and disappeared again. 

She looked at the children. 

“When night gets blind, and the moon disappears behind the clouds…” 

The children came closer, waiting for the story to continue. 

As she continued the story, she could not tell when her voice began and Thaku’s ended.