Thoughts followed him like shadows.

  Why had he really gone near the vine that day?

  Zokou’s warning hadn’t been vague. In fact, it had been one of the few times his father had spoken sharply, with a voice that left no room for questioning. And yet , he had gone. Not out of rebellion. Not curiosity. Something had pulled him.

  Or maybe someone.

  He slowed near a crooked tree by the path, its bark darkened from the recent rain. Leaves clung to its roots like frightened children. Kazeem leaned on it, catching his breath, eyes unfocused. The memory had teeth now, gnawing at the back of his mind. He had gone near the vine… and that’s when he had seen it.

  The spirit.

  Or whatever that thing was.

  There is also this persisting whisper that slithered into his thoughts.

  And the mask.

  He touched his chest. It wasn’t beside his bed when he woke, but he still felt it. Not physically. Deeper than that. Like it had taken root in his thoughts, curled up in his shadow. There was no question anymore, it was linked to him. Whether by fate, mistake, or something else entirely, it had chosen him. Or he had chosen it.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  He had already decided: the mask would be the scapegoat. If anyone asked, it would be the reason. The lie that sounded enough like truth to be safe.

  But deep down, he knew that wasn’t real. The mask wasn’t the reason. Not the full one, anyway. Just part of something bigger. Older. Hungrier.

  His gaze lowered to the dust between his feet.

  And then there was her.

  The old woman, The one who had appeared as if she had stepped out of a dream. Or a memory. She had spoken like she’d been waiting for him. Like she knew.

  And the rusty blade… the one he thought he saw sticking out of a corpse. A moment later, it was gone. Not dropped. Not picked up. Gone. Like it had never existed. And the little fullness he felt after its disappearance.

  It was too much.

  Too much for one mind to carry. Too much for one morning. Too much for someone who hadn’t even seen the 20th season of their life.

  Kazeem paused beneath another tree, this one younger, its trunk thin and curved like a question mark. The air smelled of damp dust and leftover spice from someone’s morning stew.

  A breeze stirred his hair.

  He closed his eyes.

  And remembered something else.

  That moment before the loop had broken, just after bumping into the scavenger…he had felt it. A strange fulfillment. Like some invisible vessel had been partially filled. Like he had taken something back that had been his all along.

  That same sensation stirred now, faint but present, curling in his gut like smoke from a hidden fire.

  The hunger was returning.

  Not the simple ache of an empty stomach. Not the gnaw of missed meals or skipped suppers. Something deeper. Older.

  It wasn’t for yam or foutou or sauce graine.

  It was for gb?.

  A hunger without name, without mercy.

  Something more than food. More than survival. Something ancient. Something sacred. Something wrong.

  He took a long, trembling breath.

  Then turned back toward home, walking slowly, as if afraid of what he might find outside, or inside himself.

  Just imagine starving but not knowing what to do to be full ?