Long before rivers were charted and kingdoms recorded on maps, Sumatra’s waters carried more than trade — they carried whispers of ambition, power, and memory. In the mud and currents of a forgotten riverbank, history waits for those who dare to listen.

Some stones do more than survive centuries. Some remember.

History speaks. Listen well.

🪨

The river swelled, covering Aria’s knees. The avid scholar had risked life for art, braving the torrents of the Sumatran river in the midst of the July-August monsoon.

A relic of the Srivijayan empire — the first maritime kingdom of Sumatra — was the goal. With torch in hand, she ploughed through the mud, the river’s plaintive cries rising to a near crescendo.

🪨

Her hands mired in mud, Aria’s fingers felt their way along rocks and their crevices — until they touched a half-buried stone slab.

The Kedukan Bukit inscription covered its surface.

Then, strangeness.

A feeling of being surveilled washed over Aria — almost as if the Sumatran river itself was keeping close tabs on her.

Then —

“Aria. Seek no more.”

A lost voice.

Aria’s fingers wrapped tighter around the base of her torch.

🪨

Her foot hit the base of a sharp stone.

On it, an inscription —

In ancient Javanese.

She shone her torch on the faded outlines of the script, trying to wrestle with a language she only knew through sessions with the lecturers at her university.

But she knew enough to pause.

In shock.

The rock was transcribing on its own.

Scripting her mind.

Mapping her ambitions.

Echoing her doubts.

Mirroring her obsessions.

The rock seemed alive — and knew too well who sought it.

And then she knew — echoes of the past weren’t just echoes — they lived with those who sought them.

🪨

Aria slipped her torch into her knapsack and grabbed the stone.

It refused —

To —

Budge.

She tried again —

It refused —

To —

Budge.

She stepped back —

The stone was history, and it commanded.

Demanded humility.

Solace.

Not ownership.

She left the river, and the slab, standing.

Glancing at her — waiting.

🪨

A week later, Aria returned — no slab.

But a stone.

With a new carving.

Glowing —

Changing.

Speaking.

Her initials, etched faintly.

History still called — because she

respected.

Heard.

Was still hearing.

🪨

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Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.

What we find may cost much more than we know.

📦🕰️🖼️📖

It was another evening of no social calls or friends for Albert Monterio — the introverted historian genuinely preferred archiving subjects for historical research.

Everyone had gone home to their families for the evening — all but him.

The archives were empty — and profoundly silent.

Too silent.

He combed the stoically silent shelves.

In the strange quiet there was a stack of photographs from the 1946 bombardment of Haiphong.

One photograph stood out.

A photo that disobeyed its own era.

An anomaly hiding among sepia images.

And a strange rustling that he shouldn’t have felt.

---

🔍📷🕵️‍♂️

Albert grabbed a magnifying glass and focused on the odd,
out-of-place mark.

Everything was in ruins.

Pieces of zinc roofing were scattered on the pavements.

Smoke billowed from surrounding debris.

Two soldiers lifted a seriously wounded comrade who was attempting to walk.

Amid it all stood a child, grasping an object that was out of place for its time — a modern smartphone.

Albert shook his head.

Probably some debris the kid picked up, he thought.

But the anomaly only sharpened —
on Logic’s defying path.

---

🖼️⌛🖌️

A second envelope fell from the archive bookshelf.

A similar photograph.

With him, fully present, in the frame.

The child’s device showed a timestamp — the present day’s date.

The photo shimmered, and tiny sketches appeared at the corners.

A temple he was familiar with — bombed.

A street, newly built, shattering in pieces.

Smoke billowing from the debris.

The young boy showed disaster.

Showed change.

---

⏳💀📱

And true to that, the photograph —

Changed.

The child’s gaze had shifted —

Through the screen.

Ever so slightly, staring Albert in the face.

And then —

His outline materialising where it should not have been.

Standing, motionless, beside the child’s.

With tomorrow’s date flashing on the screen’s right.

Albert hadn’t been merely observing history — he had become it.

---

🕰️💔📖

The child’s device showed a timestamp — today’s date.

The time — a minute into the future.

Albert lying slumped in his chair in the archive.

A smile etched on his face.

He had found what he had to.

And become what he had found.

If you like this story, do join me on Patreon! Buy this blog a coffee — it keeps the words flowing and the lights Your kind donation via Paypal would be greatly appreciated!

Please find a book of my horror microfiction, Echoes in the Dark, free for download here.