A figure stood ten paces ahead. Tall. Dressed in tattered white cloth. Its back was to him.
It was the Passa Paththa.
The silence stretched like a rope about to snap.
Minutes passed. Hours, perhaps. The cold lifted. Crickets resumed their song. He opened his eyes.
Nimal froze. The figure had no face on the front. Only smooth, pale skin where eyes and mouth should be. But on the back of its skull—two hollow eye sockets and a lipless grin.
The thing stopped. It raised one long arm and crooked a finger, beckoning Nimal to follow.
He walked faster. The footfall matched him.
The first half of the path was ordinary—crickets, frog calls, the rustle of palm fronds. But as he rounded the old banyan tree, the air changed. It grew cold and still. The lantern flame stood straight, as if frozen.
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