Zemani — Lika Spring. Part 2

On the fourth morning, she rose before the rooster crowed and walked to the spring. The water still ran clear, still sang over moss-slick stones, but she saw what others refused to see: a thin film of silver scum at the edges, like spit, like sickness. She knelt and dipped her fingers. The cold bit deeper than it should have—a cold with teeth.

The thread snapped.

Zemani looked past him, past the houses, past the ironwood roof where she had not slept. She looked at the mountain, which was no longer a mountain but a body —sleeping, turning, thirsty. Zemani Lika Spring. Part 2