Zainab didn't sleep that night.
She lay on a thin mat in a small guest hut in Tassaba, her eyes fixed on the wooden ceiling. The crescent moon amulet was clutched in her palm, warm like a living pulse. The map sat folded beneath her pillow, occasionally glowing faintly like it was dreaming beside her.
Her body was sore. Her head buzzed with everything she had seen underground—the voices, the murals, the message: "Return what is not yours."
But her thoughts kept returning to something else entirely.Not magic.Not secrets.Home.
She missed her mum's voice echoing from the kitchen. She missed the oily smell of dodo and beans. The hum of the neighborhood generator. Even the chaos of Lagos traffic.
"This was supposed to be an adventure," she whispered. "But I feel like I've opened something I can't close."
🧭 A Message from the Map
Just before dawn, the map lit up again. This time, a new route bloomed in blue ink—winding northeast toward an isolated place called Iyanda Gorge, deep in the highlands near Jos.
Zainab blinked at the name. "Iyanda" meant remembrance in Yoruba. Another clue?
Next to the route, a note appeared in delicate script:
"Time bends where memory pools. Trust what cannot be seen."
She exhaled slowly. "I really need Google Translate for cryptic magical riddles."
🚐 The Road to Jos
By midmorning, she was on another bus, this time riding through hills and thickening green. The air was cooler, but her nerves were hot and fraying.
She watched people out the window—market women balancing trays, boys chasing goats, a mother tying her crying baby to her back.
Normal life. Uninterrupted by ancient cities or haunted amulets.
"Am I even allowed to go back to that life after this?" she wondered.
She was only 15. And yet, every step was pulling her further from everything she knew. That scared her more than she liked to admit.
⛰ Iyanda Gorge
It took two hours of hiking and one questionable okada ride to reach the gorge.
At the edge of a wide valley stood an old iron gate, half-swallowed by ivy and moss. Above it, a sign in cracked wood:
"Lake Iyanda — Waterfall of Silence"
Zainab stepped through and followed a narrow trail, guided only by the sound of rushing water.
When she finally emerged at the clearing, her breath caught.
The lake was mirror-still.
No ripples. No insects. No birds. Just the soft roar of a waterfall feeding into it—and somehow, the water didn't move. Not a wave. Not a drop. It was like someone had paused it.
And then she noticed something stranger.
She couldn't hear her own footsteps.
Or her breath.
Even the wind had vanished.
🕰 Where Time Sleeps
She stepped closer to the edge and peered into the water.
At first, it was just her reflection. Tired eyes. Dusty braids. But then her reflection blinked—before she did.
Zainab stumbled backward, heart thudding.
Her reflection stared back calmly, then slowly raised a hand, finger pointing toward the water.
The obsidian amulet pulsed.
Zainab stepped forward again, knees trembling, and lowered the amulet into the surface.
The lake rippled for the first time.
And then… it spoke.
Not with words.
But with memories.
🧠 The Test of the Third Key
Images flashed in her mind like a slide show behind her eyes:
Her father's quiet voice reading her bedtime stories before he died.
Her mum arguing with an uncle about Zainab's "wild curiosity."
The first time she solved a Rubik's Cube and felt seen.
Then… darkness.The empty seat in the classroom after her friend Amina moved away.The way she sometimes laughed too loudly in crowds to feel less invisible.The guilt of wanting more than her little world could give.
Tears slid down her cheeks before she realized she was crying.
"You carry what you cannot let go," a voice whispered in her heart."To move forward, you must forgive yourself for surviving."
A small glowing orb floated from the water and hovered before her.
The third key.A silver ring etched with tiny runes.
Zainab took it, whispering, "Thank you," though she wasn't sure to whom.
The wind returned. Birds chirped. The world resumed.
And on the map, a final line appeared:
"Return to the place of mirrors. The last truth waits."
🎒 On the Journey Back
As she packed up her things and began the journey back toward Lagos, Zainab felt... lighter.
Not because the journey was over.It wasn't.
But because she understood something now.
Magic wasn't about escaping reality.
It was about seeing reality more clearly.
And her reality—her pain, her brilliance, her loneliness, her stubborn hope—was the very thing opening the path forward.