Sorya had not been long in my surroundings. I was still amazed at the way she had suddenly come to me—not in any natural way, not as a bird coming to a feeder or a stray dog at my door. She had simply appeared. I kept wondering who she really was, and where she had come from.

She had taken the habit of lying down to sleep in the curve of my neck, as a beloved lovebird of mine once did. Her warmth reminded me of him and made me feel better about his loss. It was as she had said the first time she spoke to me: All the ones you have loved and lost are in me.

So, in this strange life of mine, I had Sorya on one side and Tamblin curled under the pillow on the other. Their presence brought curious dreams, and I never knew whether those dreams were mine or echoes of theirs.

One night, I woke to strange mutterings. At first, I was frightened, remembering the monster in the storm that had come looking for Tamblin the first time he brought the feather to me. When I finally shook sleep from my eyes, I realized it was Sorya mumbling. She was deep in sleep, whispering words in a language I couldn’t understand.

Almost without moving, I reached for my phone and opened my artificial intelligence app to record. When Sorya stopped mumbling for a while, I asked the program not only to transcribe but to tell me what language she had spoken and what it meant.

Something happened then—a mysterious somnolence overcame me. I couldn’t read the recording, nor the translation. The letters on the screen blurred like smoke, and I drifted back into darkness.

In the morning, both my friends had woken before me. Tamblin was in the library, climbing the shelves, looking for hidden stories left between the pages by their authors. Sorya was by the window, watching the forest of palms, the birds asking for food, the lizards scrambling in the sun.

After breakfast and feeding the birds, the memory of the night returned, and I rushed to my phone. What I saw there was astonishing. The screen showed what looked like hieroglyphics—the ancient writing of Egypt, not spoken or written by any living person. Yet there it was, as though Sorya had been speaking that long-lost tongue.

And below it, the translation:

I sat there, dumbfounded. It seemed she had been arguing with someone—or something. A creator? She claimed to be daughter of the Sun? None of it made sense, and yet, somehow, it did.

She had said she’d been born from my pains and tears.

I felt a pressure on my arm and looked down. Sorya was there, gripping my flesh and staring up at me with imploring eyes.

“Stop this!” she pleaded. “You shouldn’t have heard it—shouldn’t have had it transcribed or translated. There are mysteries here no human can comprehend. It would drive you mad trying to understand. I ask you now, my friend—have faith and trust me. Accept what is, as it is, and forget what you overheard.”

I looked into her eyes. Behind her fear was a hidden strength, a will that told me I’d be foolish to disobey. I bowed my head in silence.

“Just tell me one thing,” I said. “Only one, if you can.”

“If I can, I’ll tell you. What do you want to know?” she whispered.

“Are you truly that ancient?”

She smiled faintly.