As the gate began to open, the villagers felt the presence of their loved ones. The air thickened—not with sorrow, but with warmth. A breeze stirred, carrying whispers of familiar voices. From the glowing light, the ancestors stepped forward, their forms graceful and glowing, both translucent and real.
At the threshold stood Monica and Joseph, hands intertwined, radiant with the same light as the gate. The village fell silent. The ancestors had returned, and for a moment, the line between life and death disappeared.
Joshua stood at the front, heart aching, tears in his eyes. He saw his mother's smile, his father's calm gaze—the peace of those who had passed on. Their presence calmed him, yet the sadness of farewell pulled at his soul.
Around him, the villagers stood in quiet awe. They felt the soft embrace of their ancestors, saw their faces in the light, heard familiar voices without sound. Murmurs of recognition passed among them. This was no goodbye—it was remembrance.
Joshua felt his mother first. She turned toward him, her eyes locking with his. Her lips didn't move, but her voice filled his heart.
"Joshua," she whispered gently, "Live well, my son. Remember us. Live with honor."
Her gaze lingered on him as her form began to fade.
Beside her, Joseph's spirit stood tall and steady. In his father's eyes, Joshua saw quiet strength, the kind that holds you up when words fail.
He wanted to call out, to beg them to stay. But deep down, he knew—they were not meant to remain. Monica and Joseph turned toward the gate, growing more transparent with every step.
The villagers stepped aside as the two spirits moved forward. The golden light of the gate beckoned. Joshua watched, unmoving, as his parents gave him one last look before vanishing into the light.
He reached out, silently pleading—but it was too late. The gate closed with a soft, final sound. The light dimmed. The ancestors faded like morning mist.
For a long moment, no one moved. Then, slowly, the villagers turned back. There were no tears, only reverence. They had seen their past and embraced it. Death, they knew, was not an end, but a return.
One by one, they walked back to their homes. Heads high. Hearts full. The celebration resumed—not of sorrow, but of life. Drums sounded again. Songs rose. Children danced. Laughter returned. In Sagama, death was part of the cycle.
Tables overflowed with food, and the village square bloomed with stories and song. As night gave way to dawn, the villagers drifted home, content and proud.
But Joshua stayed behind.
He remained at the place where the gate had stood, his shoulders trembling, his tears falling freely. Around him, music played and joy returned—but he could only see the light where his parents had disappeared.
"Live well, Joshua." His mother's voice echoed in his heart.
He pressed a hand to his chest, the ache sharp and deep.
The last of the villagers headed home, leaving Joshua alone in the fading starlight. For him, time had stopped. He stood there until morning.
By dawn, the square was quiet. Villagers returned to clean up the remnants of the celebration. Some approached Joshua with quiet words of comfort.
"You're strong," an old woman said, resting a hand on his shoulder. "They would be proud."
Joshua only nodded, the world still a blur. Conversations, footsteps, laughter—they passed him like wind.
As he wandered through the village, he heard murmurs coming from an alleyway. A small group of children had gathered, whispering and laughing.
Curious, Joshua approached. His steps were slow, heavy with grief.
But when he saw what they were doing, something inside him snapped.
The children weren't playing. They were mocking and pushing a boy who lay curled in the corner—frail, bruised, barely able to move. His clothes were torn, his face swollen. He hadn't even noticed Joshua approaching.
"Stop!" Joshua's voice rang out, sharp and commanding.
The children froze.
Joshua stepped forward, his sorrow pushed aside by something fiercer.
This wasn't right.
And he wouldn't stand by and watch.