The river never truly slept.
Even in the hush of evening, when the sky darkened to ink and the village lights blinked out one by one, the water whispered. Its voice moved between the trees and drifted beneath doorways, a language older than words, older than memory.
It was in that hour of hushed breath that the stranger appeared.
They stood alone at the edge of the river, a silhouette cut against the moonlit mist. Cloaked in coarse fabric worn by travel and time, they held a box in their arms wooden, carved, and quietly humming with light. Strange symbols adorned its surface, etched with such care that they seemed alive. Faint pulses of cold blue glowed from each groove, fading in and out like the rhythm of something breathing slowly in the dark.
Amaka watched from the tree line. The presence of the stranger tugged at something buried within her bones something that had not stirred in many years.
She stepped forward.
Her staff struck the earth lightly with each step, steady despite her age. Her face, lined with wisdom and loss, held calm authority. She had long learned not to fear the river's mysteries but to meet them with caution and truth.
The stranger did not flinch as she approached.
"Who are you?" Amaka asked, stopping a few paces away. Her voice was low, even, but carried the weight of one who had stood before storms.
The stranger turned, and their eyes strangely ageless met hers. Sharp. Unreadable. A deep, unsettling stillness lived behind them.
"I carry a message," the stranger said. Their voice was barely more than a whisper, but it cut through the air like wind over water. "From those who watch the river beyond the veil."
Amaka's gaze shifted briefly to the river. The surface rippled, though no wind moved. She felt it again that subtle pressure in the air, like the village was holding its breath.
"What message?" she asked, eyes narrowing.
The stranger lifted the box gently, reverently. Its carvings flared brighter for a moment, casting blue light across both their faces.
"This holds the key to a secret the river has guarded for centuries. A truth long buried," they said. "One that could either save Obade… or drown it in shadows."
Before Amaka could speak, the stranger turned to the large flat stone that jutted from the river's edge a stone once used in ceremonies, now long neglected and set the box down upon it. The light from the carvings faded back to a quiet glow.
When Amaka looked up again, the stranger was gone.
She blinked. No splash, no footsteps. Only mist, and the river's soft hiss.
The box remained.
That night, Obade did not rest. The usual songs of crickets and wind through thatch roofs were replaced by a hush a shared silence, thick and uneasy, that pressed against the village like a held breath.
Far from the riverbank, in a small, timeworn hut on the edge of the village, Ola sat hunched over a low table. His fingers were calloused, knotted by age, but they trembled as he reached for the oil lamp and turned the flame higher. The shadows leapt around the room, flickering like restless memories on the walls.
He hadn't lit that lamp in years.
Something had awakened in him the moment the stranger arrived. He'd felt it before Amaka even stepped into the mist the low, steady thrum in his chest. Not his heartbeat. No, this was different. Familiar.
A rhythm.
A drumbeat.
Faint. Fainter than memory. But there, pulsing like a secret remembered too late.
Ola let out a slow breath, then reached beneath the wooden bench on which he sat. His hand found a leather pouch buried beneath folded cloth and old tools. Carefully, he pulled it into the light and opened it.
Inside lay his journal.
The cover, once richly dyed, had faded into earth tones. The corners were worn, curled with time. He opened it gently, as if it might dissolve at his touch. Pages rustled like dry leaves.
He turned past sketches of animals and river reeds, past verses of old chants and fragments of rhythms that once guided the village festivals. He turned until he found it the folded page he had not dared to look at for decades.
He unfolded it.
A symbol had been drawn in careful strokes: a spiral within a circle, surrounded by three small dots. Beneath it, in younger, steadier handwriting, were the words:
We made a promise to the river. A warning never heeded.
Ola's mouth went dry.
A memory surfaced with sudden violence boys waist-deep in the river, a game turned ritual, then fear. A boy taken. A vow of silence. And then… the silence of the drums. The river had warned them once before.
And they had ignored it.
Now it returned.
Outside his hut, the wind began to shift. Trees groaned under a sudden breeze, and the river's voice grew louder, urgent. Ola stood slowly, the journal still in hand, and made his way through the darkened paths toward the square.
At the center, by the fire pit, the box still rested where the stranger had placed it. A small cluster of villagers stood nearby, watching from a distance, speaking in hushed tones.
Amaka sat alone on a low stool, her shawl pulled tight, her gaze locked on the box. She didn't flinch as Ola approached and sat beside her.
"You feel it too," she murmured, without looking at him.
Ola nodded. "The drums. The river." He set the journal beside her. "It's calling again."
Amaka's hand brushed the worn cover. "The past isn't finished with us."
The box pulsed gently, a faint flicker of blue light dancing across its surface. Neither of them touched it. Not yet.
Beyond them, the river's edge shimmered with moonlight. Or something more.
And in the distance soft, uncertain, but real a drumbeat echoed.
Once.
Then again.
The river remembered.
And this time, it would not be ignored.