Morning arrives, golden and dense. I make my way to Amina's home, heart still racing. She's on the rooftop balcony, tending a line of potted herbs and vegetables. Mint, basil, and orange-blossomed nkuto line the rail.
When she sees me, she tilts her head. "You've seen something," she says.
We sit among the plants. I speak of the shattered shadow, the whispering radio, and the voice that called me at the lagoon. She doesn't laugh. Instead, she shows me her dream journal.
"I dreamed of a mango tree with roots made of light," she whispers. "It walked east, dragging stars in its wake. And the sky bled blue fire."
We exchange a glance. Neither of us is imagining this.
I sip tea as she tunes her radio. The static sharpens, then a low pulse echoes through the speaker, like a distant drumbeat—three beats, then silence.
That night, I sleep and fall immediately into vision.
I am in a desert of glass orbs. Each orb shows a living memory: an old woman grinding millet, a boy chasing a goat, lovers dancing in rain. The spheres tremble, then crack. One by one, their light dims.
I fall.
I land at the foot of a vast ebony tree. Its branches stretch into galaxies. A child sleeps nestled in its limbs. A jaguar crouches below, golden eyes gleaming. An old man steps from the roots, his skin the color of dark mahogany, his beard silver and glowing.
He touches my forehead. "The balance has frayed. You stand at the broken thread."
The child opens her eyes. She smiles. "Save her," the voices plead. "She is all the hope."
A storm swells. Birds—black, radiant—circle above. They chant: "Find Jabari. He knows the root path."
I awaken in a cold sweat. My skin glows faintly under the first light of dawn. The name Jabari beats in my heart.