Chapter 6
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The tent began to sway slightly, and accumulated snow fell softly from the trees.
An earthquake? In Alaska? Possible but unlikely.
The vibration grew stronger, now accompanied by a low hum, like a single note sung by countless voices in chorus.
Anna crawled out of the tent, and the sight before her stole her breath.
The air was filled with light—not the Northern Lights, but countless drifting points of light, like fireflies that couldn't possibly exist in the Arctic winter.
They formed vortices and patterns, sometimes vaguely taking the shape of human faces or familiar forms.
Most terrifying was Anna's sense of cognition, of understanding: these were not random phenomena. They were conscious, or mimicking consciousness. They were observing her, studying her.
One of the light spots drifted close to her, hovering before her face. In that light, she saw her grandmother's face—she had passed away ten years ago.
"Anna," the light spot/grandmother said, "stay with us. We are lonely."
Anna felt a tremendous sadness welling up in her heart, tears freezing on her lashes. Part of her truly wanted to agree, to stay forever in this supernatural beauty.
But she remembered Sima's words: "echoes." These were just fragments of memories and emotions, not real people.
"No," she said softly, then repeated more loudly: "No! You are not real!"
The light spot flickered, and her grandmother's face contorted into an expression of pain.
"We are real!" multiple voices said in chorus. "As real as you are! We are the joys and sorrows of Novak! We are its love and fear!"
The vibration grew stronger. The ground beneath Anna's feet began to crack—not physical fissures, but rifts of light and shadow from which more sounds and images emerged: children's laughter, wedding songs, death wails, lonely sighs. The life of an entire village—its peak emotional moments—presented all at once, overwhelming her senses.
Anna fell to her knees, covering her ears with her hands, closing her eyes, but it was useless. These phenomena entered her mind directly.
She was about to lose herself, about to be swallowed by this tsunami of emotions. Just then, her hand touched the pouch in her inner pocket.
Anna pulled it out, not to smell it, but to clutch it tightly against her chest like an anchor.
She concentrated all her willpower, remembering who she was: Anna Kim, architect, hiking enthusiast, whose mother worried about her constant adventures, whose father was proud of her independence, whose friends loved her sense of humor... Her life. Her identity.
Slowly, those images and sounds began to fade, as if losing interest.
The points of light extinguished one by one, and the vibrations gradually subsided.
When Anna raised her head again, only ordinary Arctic morning light scattered across the snow. Everything was over.
Exhausted but determined, Anna packed up her camp and continued forward.
She found a section of the river that was completely frozen over and crossed safely. The rest of the journey was relatively easy, though fatigue and cold still dogged her every step.
At noon, she saw a small airstrip and a wooden cabin in the distance—the rendezvous point.
Almost simultaneously, the sound of an engine came from the sky, and a small airplane appeared on the horizon.
Anna stood there, watching as the plane approached, feeling a complex mix of emotions rising within her: relief, sadness, wonder, and a strange tinge of loss.
When the plane landed and the pilot stepped out of the cockpit, he looked at Anna in surprise: "Good heavens, you look like you've been through hell! Was the snowstorm that bad? We were worried sick—the geomagnetic storm knocked out all communications."
Anna shook her head and smiled. "Not just the snowstorm. It's a long story."
During the flight back to civilization, Anna gazed at the endless snow plains and forests below.
She knew Novak was still there, preserving the echoes of those memories, waiting for the next lost soul.
She touched the leather pouch in her pocket and decided to keep this secret—at least for now.
Some truths are too strange to be shared immediately.
But Anna knew she would return. Not as someone lost, but as a listener.
Because those echoes, whatever they were, deserved to be heard and remembered by someone.
Perhaps this is how all civilizations endure—by listening to the voices of the past, understanding them, and then moving forward.
