The Feeding Ritual

The river was always the same _quiet, covered in a light mast, as if someone had placed a thin sheet over the water to hide whatever lived beneath it.

Lia was always the first to arrive. She never understood why her mother was always late.

Every week it was the same.

Lia would come early, wait for a while, and then hear her mother’s heavy footsteps in the distance.

Adults always walked slowly, as if the ground itself slowed down for them. “You came early today…” her mother said when she finally arrived. Her voice was calm, not surprised—just familiar. Lia did not answer. She was already looking at the water. The same scene waited at the riverbank.

Small human-like creatures stood in groups.

Some held bags, some carried wrapped bundles, and some just waited. Lia lowered her head and took bread from her pocket.

Soft, warm, and fresh. She brought it every week.

Her mother always said it was necessary. “They are hungry…” her mother always said. But Lia was never fully sure it was just hunger. She broke the bread into small pieces and threw them toward the river. As soon as the first piece fell, the water moved. First one, then two, then suddenly the whole group came alive. They ran. Not really ran—they jumped, stumbled, pushed each other. Their arms were small, their eyes were big, and their faces were always filled with need. Lia laughed. “Look, Mom! They are running again!” Her mother sighed softly. “Speak quietly. They get used to noise.” Lia nodded, but her eyes stayed on the water. The humans rushed toward the bread like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.

Some grabbed a piece and ran away.

Some fell in the middle. Some just sat with empty hands. It was always the same. Every week. Like a ritual. “Doesn’t it feel strange to you?” Lia asked suddenly. Her mother looked at her. “What does?” “This… that they look at us, and still run like we are everything.” Her mother did not answer.

She kept looking at the river. Far away, one small human stood apart from the rest.

He was not running. Not reaching. Just watching. Lia noticed him for the first time. His eyes were different.

The others had hunger in their eyes, but his had something else—questions. “Mom…” Lia said softly, “why isn’t he coming?” Her mother followed her gaze. “Some understand later than others.” “Understand what?” No answer came. Lia threw another piece of bread.

The others rushed again, but the small human did not move. He just kept watching. Lia felt something strange.

For the first time, she was not sure who was watching whom. After a while, the small human slowly walked to the edge of the water—but not toward the bread.

He was looking at Lia. It was the first time a human had looked directly at her. There was no fear in his eyes.

No hunger. Just silence. Lia held the last piece of bread in her hand. “Won’t you come?” she asked softly, as if she was not sure why she was asking. He did not speak. He picked up a small stone and threw it into the water. Ripples spread across the surface. Then he turned and walked away. Lia watched him for a long time. Finally, she turned to her mother and asked, “Why do we feed them?” It was not the first time she had wondered—but this time it felt different. Her mother paused before answering. “Because it is the ritual.” “What happens if we don’t?” Her mother looked at her.

Her eyes were tired in a way Lia had never noticed before. “Then they stop noticing us.” That sentence felt strange. For the first time, Lia wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. The river slowly became quiet again.

Some humans had left. Some were still searching for leftover pieces. And the small human sat alone in the distance. Lia looked at the river one last time. Then she took her mother’s hand. “Will we come again tomorrow?” Her mother nodded. “We always come.” They walked away. But one question stayed in Lia’s mind—quiet, heavy, and new: If this is really hunger... then what are we?.