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Göbekli Hills, Before the Stones Were Raised
The world had not yet learned to speak in walls.
No gods, no carved names, no kings.
Only wind, and fire, and children who knew when to run—
and when to listen.
Ishara was nine when she saw him.
It was early.
The kind of morning when mist drapes the hills like forgotten cloth,
and the air smells of stone and damp roots.
She had slipped away before the fire-pits burned,
before the women rose to their weaving and lentils.
Alone, she wandered—ankle-deep in grass cold with dew,
fingers stained dark with dirt and sap.
She moved like a shadow between stalks,
quiet from habit, quicker still from punishment.
Curiosity had cost her before.
Then something shifted.
Not a sound, exactly.
More like the absence of one.
The hush before the hawk dives.
The breath the drum holds before its strike.
Stillness came first.
She froze mid-step.
A breeze passed—but the grass did not stir.
The sky above whispered nothing.
Her skin prickled, a hunter's knowing.
She looked up.
And there he was.
A man—or something that wore the shape of one—
stood where no man should have stood,
half-veiled by mist, unmoving in the grass.
Too still.
He is not one of our people, she thought.
She stayed rooted.
There had been danger before,
when strangers came from beyond the river.
But this one—
He was not like the hunters.
Not like the elders when they sat in story-circle,
full of breath and sway and flickering hands.
He did not blink. Did not shift.
He did not even seem to breathe.
He looked as though the earth had raised him from its own flesh—
skin the color of clay,
limbs shaped by wind and time,
then forgotten there like an abandoned thought.
But Ishara did not feel fear—
not at first.
It wasn't spirits or curses that came to her.
Only a child's question:
Why is he standing so still?
She tilted her head.
So did he.
Same tilt. Same measure.
She narrowed her eyes, curiosity edging closer than caution.
"Hello?" she asked—not loud.
No answer.
His skin was pale as dust.
His hair hung long and pale like fishbone.
His face was too smooth—no scar, no mark,
as if time had passed him by without touching.
But it was the eyes that turned her stomach.
Old.
Not cruel, not kind.
Just ancient.
Like stones buried so long the soil no longer noticed them.
Something inside her recoiled.
And yet—she stayed.
As always, curiosity steadied her more than fear ever could.
"I'm not doing anything bad," she said, lifting her chin.
"Just looking for roots."
Still, no movement.
"You're not from here, are you?" she asked.
"Did you cross the river? River people never come this far."
Silence.
"Are you sick?"
Then he moved.
A tilt of the head. A small shift of shoulder.
Not quick. Not slow.
Just wrong.
She took a step back.
"You can hear me, can't you?"
A blink—slow as dusk falling.
Like he had forgotten how.
Her brow furrowed. "Are you mocking me?"
Sharper, now. A flicker of indignation.
Again, the head tilt.
Mirrored. Perfect.
Her hand tightened on the root she held.
The mist curled closer, thicker now—clinging like breath.
"I'll tell the elders," she warned. "They'll come. They'll see you."
He took one step forward.
Clean. Fluid. Too smooth to be true.
She flinched—stumbled back.
He stopped.
And lifted a hand.
Palm open. Empty.
Not greeting. Not threat.
Stillness, again.
Then his lips moved.
"I see you," he said.
The words were quiet—but they struck like flint,
sparking something that burned at the edges of her chest.
The voice was deep, slow, and strange—
like a drum that had not sounded in a thousand winters.
A voice that forgot itself as it spoke.
Ishara's breath caught.
Her heart thundered.
And then—she turned away
And ran