The evening descended over Obade with a slow, deliberate grace, draping the village in the soft indigo of twilight. The scent of damp earth rose from the soil, mingling with the sweet musk of wild jasmine that twined through the air like invisible threads. The river's breath was ever-present—deep, steady, like the pulse of a great unseen heart beneath the land.
Beneath this gentle cloak of dusk, the village seemed to hold its own quiet pulse—watchful and waiting—as if the earth itself waited, breath bated, for a truth yet to unfold.
At the riverbank, where the water whispered secrets only the night could understand, Ola stood still and rooted like an ancient tree. His dark eyes traced the surface of the river, sharp and fierce with sleepless determination. The currents shimmered silver beneath the moonlight, their fluid grace concealing something deeper—something restless, a subtle shifting, as if the river's very heart was unsettled.
The seed they had planted days before now lay hidden beneath the soil, its brilliance softened by the earth's embrace but no less alive. A faint pulse lingered there—steady, a heartbeat beneath the clay and roots. Ola could feel that rhythm deep inside himself, a tether linking him to the river's ancient memory.
Behind him, the crunch of footsteps on dry leaves broke the stillness.
Iyagbẹ́kọ́ approached slowly, her silhouette framed by the fading embers of village fires. Her once-bright robes, woven with intricate patterns of salt and ash, had darkened with wear and the invisible weight of grief. Yet her presence remained steady—an unyielding anchor in the sea of shifting shadows.
"The river speaks in shadows now," she said softly, voice low and thick with knowledge born from countless seasons. "Not all memories are ready to be faced, Ola."
He turned, searching her deep, time-worn eyes, where flickers of unease danced beneath their ancient depths. "What do you mean? The seed was supposed to bring healing, to restore balance."
Iyagbẹ́kọ́'s lips pressed into a thin line. "Healing is never a straight path. The river carries not only what is spoken but also what we hide—what we fear. There are echoes beneath the currents, whispers of things long buried. The shadows have begun to stir."
Ola's breath caught sharply. The Witherbound.
His mind raced back to the haunting forms that had emerged—twisted shapes born of memory corrupted by neglect and silence. Creatures forged from pain and forgotten histories, their hunger a dark mirror to wounds left unhealed.
"You think they're returning?" His voice was low, edged with dread.
She nodded slowly. "They never left. They slipped deeper into dark places—waiting, growing. The seed will grow, yes. But its roots will be tested by the bitterness of the forgotten."
The river shifted again, its surface rippling like a breath held too long. From its depths, a shadow slipped through the currents—dark, sinuous, a whispered shape born of night and water.
Ola's hand instinctively closed around the carved staff Iyagbẹ́kọ́ had given him, the symbols etched into the wood glowing faintly with protective power.
"We must be ready," he said, voice steady despite the pounding in his chest. "The shadows are coming to claim what we tried to bury."
Iyagbẹ́kọ́'s gaze softened as she turned toward the village, where laughter and song wove fragile threads of joy through the night air. Children darted between flickering firelight, faces radiant with innocence, oblivious to the darkness pressing near.
"We cannot let fear silence the river again," she whispered, voice trembling with both warning and hope. "The river is Obade's lifeblood. We must carry its light—even when darkness threatens to overwhelm."
Ola nodded, swallowing the tightness rising in his throat. The weight of responsibility settled heavy as stone in his chest. This was no longer a battle of spirits or songs—it was a reckoning. A test of courage, of truth, and of the strength to face what lurked beneath water and memory alike.
The stars above twinkled—some bright and steady, others dimmed by the thick veil of drifting night clouds. The river mirrored the sky, its surface fractured by ripples that carried the voices of ancestors—those who had loved and lost, who had spoken and been silenced.
Suddenly, the water shuddered violently. From its depths, a shape rose—not fully formed, but unmistakable.
The faint glow of threadlight clung to it like mist, outlining a figure both familiar and fractured.
Ola's heart thundered. The shadow was one of the Witherbound—once a child of Obade, now twisted by the weight of forgotten pain. Its eyes were empty voids, yet within flickered sparks of a distant humanity, faint glimmers of a name lost to silence.
The creature moved toward the shore, motion slow but relentless. Around it, the river's surface rippled with dark veins, as if the water itself mourned the burden it carried.
Ola stepped forward, staff raised in greeting and defense.
"You are remembered," he said firmly, voice steady even as his heart screamed against the cold truth. "You are not forgotten."
The creature paused, form wavering like smoke caught in a restless wind. It emitted a low, mournful sound—less a threat and more a cry of longing.
Iyagbẹ́kọ́ joined him, lifting her staff high. Symbols etched on the wood flared bright, casting protective light over the villagers gathered near the water's edge.
"We cannot fight this with anger," she said, eyes locked on the shadow. "It is pain twisted by silence. We must offer it a voice."
The Witherbound's hollow eyes flickered, the dark veil lifting briefly. Slowly, the figure reached out—a trembling hand extended toward the villagers.
From the crowd, a young woman stepped forward. Her face was etched with sorrow, yet her eyes burned with fierce compassion.
"I am Nia," she said, voice unwavering. "I remember you. I carry your stories."
She knelt by the riverbank and began to sing—a song ancient and broken, pieced together with fragments of memory and hope. Her voice wove through the night like a healing balm, threading light through shadow, weaving courage into fear.
As Nia sang, the Witherbound's form softened. The darkness around it receded, revealing glimpses of the child it once was—a face marked by loss but also by the spark of life.
The river responded—the currents brightened, water carrying the song far beyond Obade's banks.
Ola felt the weight in his chest shift—tentative hope stirring for the first time in many moons.
Iyagbẹ́kọ́ smiled, tears glistening in her eyes. "This is the beginning—not just of healing, but of remembering."
The villagers joined in, voices rising in unison. Together they sang—to the river, to the shadows, to the wounds that had festered too long in silence.
The night stretched on—a tapestry woven from light and dark, every note, every breath, every heartbeat a stitch in the sacred cloth.
Beneath the surface, the river moved with renewed purpose.
It was no longer just water flowing through Obade.
It was memory.
It was truth.
It was life itself.