In a small riverside village, Old Man H (Haran)—a man over sixty—lost both of his daughters in the furious flood. People said lightning struck the wooden house where the three of them were sheltering, and the water rushed in too quickly to react.

The immense loss aged him a decade overnight. Two simple, rustic coffins were hastily built and temporarily placed in the village communal hall because his own home had been washed away. After waiting for the water to recede for several days without success, he decided to take his daughters’ bodies across the river to be buried on the hill on the other side—where their mother had rested for ten years.

That morning, the water was still high but less violent. He and two neighbors paddled a small bamboo boat, placing the two coffins inside, covered with white cloth. On the river, a thick fog suddenly rolled in, dense as smoke, making the boat sway precariously in the white expanse.
Mid-stream, the boat suddenly stopped dead, even though the current was still strong. The three men were bewildered, thinking they had snagged on a submerged rock, but below them was a deep channel. Suddenly, a cold gust of wind swept by, and then the echoing sound of bells rang out—a sound no one could understand where it came from.

Haran felt a shiver run down his spine. The bells grew closer, clearer with each passing moment, as if echoing from the deep riverbed itself. His two neighbors turned pale, trying to push with their poles, but the boat remained motionless, as if held by an invisible force. The bells were no longer distant chimes but rapid, powerful tolls, making the air around them heavier and gloomier.

The thick fog suddenly dispersed slightly, revealing a faint shape amidst the silvery water. It wasn’t a drifting log, nor was it a rock. Gradually, the image became clearer: a small, ancient temple, submerged beneath the river, its moss-covered roof and decaying wooden pillars appearing mysteriously. The sound of the bells emanated from that very place, from a large bronze bell hanging strangely motionless before the temple’s entrance, swaying oddly despite the absence of wind.

A mix of fear and urgency welled up in Haran’s heart. He recalled the old legends of a sacred temple swallowed by a great flood centuries ago. People said it was a temple dedicated to the River God (Jal Devta), and only when a pure soul passed by would the temple reveal itself to bid farewell. He looked down at the two coffins, his heart aching. Was it possible that the souls of his two little daughters were being escorted by the River God to eternal peace?

The bells chimed again in a long peal, echoing like a greeting, a farewell. The boat slowly began to move again, not by the efforts of the three men, but as if an invisible current was pushing it along. The temple gradually sank back into the fog and floodwaters; the bells also faded until they completely disappeared. The air returned to the eerie silence of the vast river.

Haran looked up at the grey sky, tears welling up again. He knew his two daughters were gone, but at least they had received a strange and perhaps sacred farewell. The pain remained, but deep down, he felt a slight sense of tranquility, as if an invisible hand had guided the souls of the two children away from this suffering world. The boat continued its journey towards the high hill, where their mother awaited.