Morning's False Light
Dawn in Obade arrived hesitantly, as if unsure whether it belonged after a night so heavy.
The sun finally emerged—soft, golden, fluorescent on the reed fields—but it brought no warmth, only an ache behind the eyes. Everything felt muted. The villagers moved through their morning rituals as though sleep clung to their bones. Chickens stood silent mid-step; dogs lay near fire pits, heads resting on paws, staring into spaces alive only in their minds.
At the heart of the village, the river rippled quietly, as if stirred by an invisible hand. No breeze stirred the reeds. No creature disturbed the water.
Only Ola remained awake.
He sat at the threshold of his hut, knees folded beneath his tattered cloak. His back leaned into the grainy wood of the wall, but the comfort was absent, replaced by something darker—like a memory he couldn't untangle. His gaze was locked on the rippling surface beyond, each glint of light off water carrying a sharp edge. In his chest, he felt it: the Watcher's mark, constant and low. Not painful, but a hollow weight—like a pebble pressed into his sternum, endlessly reminding him of its presence.
Echo appeared, emerging from shadow as quietly as moonlight fades. She offered him a gourd of palm water, fingers brushing his wrist. There were no words—only shared understanding.
He took the gourd and drank. The liquid was cool and fragrant, but the dryness lodged in his throat remained, thick and stubborn.
"She's still there," he murmured.
Echo's gaze drifted to the river. "She's listening," she said softly.
Ola frowned. "She?"
Echo's lips lifted in a ghost of a smile. "Everything ancient and patient enough to wait this long is a she, in this world."
He wanted to ask more, but the rhythmic tapping of Iyagbẹ́kọ's staff against packed earth drew their attention away. Three short taps, one long—like a warning built into the rhythm itself.
The older woman stepped into view, her robe heavy, speech minimal. Trailing behind her were two boys—no older than ten. Their cheeks were pale, eyes glazed, as though they carried secrets heavier than their small frames. Each clutched a strip of reed-paper, stained dark, with water that glistened too thickly.
"They were found kneeling in the lower fields," Iyagbẹ́kọ said. Her voice was steady. "Whispering names they should not know."
Ola held his breath. He barely reached to gather one of the reed strips from the trembling boy. The paper felt alive—so fragile it almost melted in his grip. Ink bled across its surface in broken lines, pooling and shifting like quicksilver.
For a moment, nothing made sense. Then the shapes emerged.
Names.
Not any script he knew. But they throbbed beneath his fingers, familiar like memory yet fuzzy as dreams upon waking.
He let the paper fall. The boy blinked, as if waking from a dream. When he spoke, the voice was no longer his own.
"You will carry them, Ola."
Silence fell, broken only by the shallow breaths of villagers gathering close.
Iyagbẹ́kọ's lips pressed tight. "It has begun."
By the Reed Fields
They walked together through the morning mist, which clung thickly to the reeds, muffling sound and definition. The villagers formed a circle before a patch of shriveled earth, stampeding only in fear. No one approached too close.
The smell—something alien yet familiar. A tang of decay scents sharpened by rust and iron. Ola's stomach twisted.
"It was just reeds yesterday," the farmer said. His voice trembled. "Now… this."
Ola knelt, careful. The earth looked charred—but slick and damp. Dark rivulets of fluid oozed up, seeping through the earth like blood forced upward. At the center, something rose.
Pale. Ridged like bone. Smooth. He brushed aside muck.
Not bone.
A mask.
It wasn't carved. It looked grown—its surface pale as scaled fish under water, edges feathered like damp clay. The eye slits were rail-thin, too sharp. And in that moment, it felt alive—breathing under his touch.
Her voice echoed, soft as mist.
"One for each name."
Every head turned toward Ola—but only Iyagbẹ́kọ met his gaze, knowing.
The mask twitched.
Echo moved faster than thought, pulling a strip of cloth from her sash. She wrapped the mask tight as ritual, urgency gripping her.
"We can't leave it here," she said.
Ola felt his heart steady. The part of him touched by the Watcher whispered—put it on. But he stood firm, breath shallow.
The Council of Masks
They gathered before dusk under a sky bruised with purple and ash. A circle frayed by dread and anticipation. Iyagbẹ́kọ sat in the center, mask wrapped in cloth before her like a taboo offering to the river.
The elders spoke: voices sharp, opinionated, fear-ridden.
"It's a curse."
"A warning."
"Bait."
Iyagbẹ́kọ raised her staff, and silence fell as though carved by its presence.
"This is the first," she said. "It will not be the last."
Heard like a hush across the reeds.
Ola's voice shook, low. "The Watcher is marking them."
Murmurs rose.
"Marking who?" an elder said.
"The names she wants carried," Ola continued. "Not just the dead. The living."
Faces shifted. Eyes darted. Fear flickered like shadows at dusk.
"What happens when the marked put the masks on?" Echo asked, voice tight.
Iyagbẹ́kọ looked at them all. Quiet, unsparing.
"They stop belonging to themselves."
Silence.
Ola felt every gaze settle on him—not blame, but recognition. The Watcher's mark already lay heavy upon him. Everyone knew it. And with that mark, he'd stepped into the current it controlled.
Nightfall by the River
He didn't intend to walk there. But in the dark, his feet betrayed him. His reflection wavered over water lapping at ankles. The moon a sickle above, rays chasing across the surface. He looked into the wave-trapped sky, but saw more: a shadow waiting just beyond the shallows.
Not the Watcher in fullness—but a memory wearing an ill-fitting skin. Faceless. And impossibly smiling.
"You have one of my masks."
His voice stuck.
"Bring it to me."
He recoiled, water parting around his legs.
"If you keep it," the voice said softly, "you keep the name it holds. And you will feel it—night after night—weighting your eyes, pushing through your lips."
He swallowed.
"Whose name?"
The surface seemed to breathe. The river's surface shimmered in slow, deliberate pulses.
"Yours."
Expanded — Internal Rumination & Atmosphere
His breath caught in his throat. Every nerve trembled. Part of him understood with primal clarity: That mask, with its scaled surface, curved edges, and slit-thin eyes—it contained him. Or perhaps, he.
His heartbeat echoed like distant drums. The still night hypocritically hushed. Then the reed fields sighed with movement.
A whisper riffled, smaller than breeze:
"Yours."
Impossible.
Ola took a trembling step back. The water swallowed the sound of his footfall. Cooler than the night, yet not cold. The forest held its breath in the hush.
An urge rolled inside him. To flee. To run from the weight now made flesh. But the words—the breath they carried—kept pulling:
"Bring it to me."
He knew then what the Watcher demanded: not obedience, but surrender. And the cost was not only the mask but the self.
He flicked his gaze to the horizon, just beyond glowing reeds. Only Echo's face came to him—ashen, determined, alive with unshed tears. Iyagbẹ́kọ's steady staff for support.
Something broke loose inside him. Not hope—but edges of resistance.
He turned from the water and, with deliberate slowness, unsheathed the wrapped mask from Echo's pouch—barely.
In that moment, moonlight caught the cloth and revealed something within: the faint flicker of his eyes, the weight of a name that no longer belonged solely to him.
And then the forest exhaled. The reeds leaned. The night sighed.
He pocketed the wrapped mask.
He turned toward the path home.
The river watched.
And a name stilled behind his ribs.