🌄The Sun Rises from the East - Episode 2

Sasteria
Sep 14
5 min read

Updated: Oct 11

🌑 Hope & Awakening

✍️ by Raffi Rahman (Sasteria)

🌄 First Light

The dawn came timidly, as if unsure it was welcome. At first it was only a faint paling of the sky above the mountains, a hesitant wash of grey that softened the ridges. Then a blush of pale gold seeped across the horizon, thinning the shadows that had owned the valley for so long.

The villagers stirred to the sound of roosters calling, though their cries seemed clearer, stronger than the night before. Doors creaked open. Feet shuffled on dirt. Children peeked out from behind mothers’ skirts, blinking at the fragile promise of morning.

And for the first time in many years, the silence of the valley did not feel absolute. It felt fragile. Breakable.

✒️ The Boy and His Parchment

The boy returned to the shrine as he had promised himself. The cold stone where he had hidden his words seemed almost warm under the new sun. He pulled the parchment from its hiding place, his hands trembling less now.

He read aloud softly, testing whether his words could live in the open air:

“They cannot take what is not theirs to own.They cannot silence what was never theirs to command.”

The wind carried the words farther than he expected. A girl drawing water from a nearby well lifted her head. An old man passing with a bundle of sticks slowed his step. The boy’s throat tightened — but no one scolded him. No soldier appeared. The world did not end.

Instead, the girl smiled faintly before lowering her eyes, and the old man gave the boy a look not of warning, but of recognition.

For the first time, the boy felt his words had left the page and entered the valley.

👩‍👧 Voices of Women

In her small home, Amina tended her fire while Laila, her daughter, repeated the boy’s words in a whisper. She had overheard him at the shrine.

“Mother,” Laila said, eyes wide with wonder, “he spoke like the men in the courtyard — but clearer. Like the sun was inside his chest.”

Amina smiled sadly. “Words are like seeds, child. Once scattered, they grow where you least expect.”

That evening, Samira the widow gathered three other women into her home. From beneath her floorboard she drew her journal, worn and trembling in her hands. For years it had been her only confidant, her only rebellion. But tonight she read aloud:

“They caged our voices, but they forgot that silence carries. They bound our hands, but they forgot that memories write themselves.”

The women listened in awe, the candle flame flickering between them. By the time Samira closed the book, their silence had changed. It was no longer submission. It was gathering strength, waiting to burst.

🔥 The Gathering Flame

Ibrahim and the men met again in the courtyard behind the sagging gate. But this time there were not six — there were eleven. Two young farmers, a teacher, and even the old blacksmith had joined.

The lantern glowed stronger, its flame steady in the still air.

Ibrahim’s voice carried hope this time, not just defiance. “Last night I dreamed the valley was full of singing again. It frightened me, because I had forgotten what it sounded like. But when I woke, I was not afraid anymore. I was hungry for it.”

The boy’s parchment appeared that night too, passed from hand to hand. Some read aloud haltingly; others whispered the lines as though tasting something forbidden but sweet. By the end, the men sat in silence — but it was no longer the silence of fear. It was silence of resolve.

From a nearby roof, unseen, Laila listened. And when she crept home, she whispered the words into her mother’s ear.

🌱 Children and Elders

In the dusty courtyard, Yusuf the elder watched his grandchildren play. At first their laughter made him flinch, expecting reprimand. But then something shifted. Their mother, tired of hushing, let them laugh longer. The sound rose like clear bells across the street.

Yusuf’s cane tapped the ground as tears filled his eyes. “Yes, laugh,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Fill the air again.”

For years he had feared that joy itself was lost. But as the children’s voices danced through the valley, he realized joy was patient — it had only been waiting.

🌌 Whispers Becoming Songs

The transformation was slow, but unstoppable. Women hummed lullabies louder at night. Men greeted each other in the streets with firmer voices. Neighbors who had passed without acknowledgment now paused, exchanging glances heavy with unspoken solidarity.

One evening, as the moon shone bright, someone began a song. A simple tune, old as the valley. Others joined, hesitant at first, then strong. Windows opened. Voices blended. For the first time in decades, the valley sang.

Even the stars seemed brighter, no longer hiding behind clouds.

⚔️ Threat of Shadows

But hope does not rise unnoticed. The rulers’ soldiers began to sense unrest. Patrols grew longer. Questions sharper. A decree was posted on the village square forbidding gatherings, songs, or “dangerous words.”

The parchment the boy had written became contraband overnight. Fear returned, but not as it once was. This time it met resistance. Mothers hid the parchment under bread loaves. Elders recited the words as proverbs. Children scratched the lines into dirt before the wind erased them.

Chains rattled again, but for the first time, they met pulling hands.

🌞 The Flame Unhidden

The awakening came not with a clash of swords, but with a single act of courage.

One morning, Laila stood in the marketplace, her small frame dwarfed by the crowd. Soldiers watched from the square. She lifted her chin and spoke in a clear, trembling voice:

“They cannot take what is not theirs to own.They cannot silence what was never theirs to command.”

The marketplace froze. Fear gripped the air — but then, one voice echoed her. Then another. Then another.

Within moments, the valley was alive with voices repeating the words, louder and louder until the square shook with them.

The soldiers stood stunned. They could not arrest everyone. They could not silence all.

And above them all, the sun broke free of the last cloud, flooding the valley with light.

🌅 Awakening

That night, the lantern in Ibrahim’s courtyard did not sputter. It blazed. Men and women gathered together for the first time, their voices mingling, their laughter free.

Samira read from her journal, not in whispers but aloud. Children played without being hushed. Yusuf wept openly, his tears falling onto the hands of his grandchildren.

The valley was still under watch, still bound by decrees and soldiers — but something greater had broken free.

Hope had awakened.

And once awakened, it would never sleep again.

✨ The story continues…

Stay with us as the journey unfolds in Episode 3 – “The Rising Tide,” where the whispers of hope grow into waves that can no longer be contained."",