The night had never looked this infinite.
Above, the sky stretched in a tapestry of deep indigo and violet, stars punctuating the vast silence like breathless confessions of the universe. They glittered with the quiet intensity of forgotten prayers, of memories still burning across lifetimes. Each star shimmered as though aware of who watched them from below.
And below, the river answered. It mirrored the heavens so perfectly it was hard to tell where sky ended and water began. The current shimmered with light—not from the moon, not even from the stars—but from something older. Something sacred. It was as though the heavens had bent low enough to touch the earth, and in that meeting, the river had become more than water.
It had become memory.
Iyi stood barefoot at the edge of the riverbank. The cool water lapped gently against his toes, as if recognizing him. As if welcoming him back.
He inhaled slowly. The scent of jasmine lingered in the air—sweet, heady, and laced with the sharpness of damp earth. The ground beneath him pulsed faintly, a rhythm that echoed through his bones. Behind him, the forest was alive with the soft chorus of crickets, the occasional rustle of small animals, and the rustling of trees whispering ancient things to one another.
He didn't speak. There was no need to.
The sponge tucked into his satchel beat with a pulse of its own—soft, deliberate, patient. As if it too waited for something sacred to begin.
Iyi's gaze lifted skyward. He didn't just see the stars—he felt them. Each one vibrated with a hum that resonated in his chest, like a drumbeat from far away. The River of Stars. That was what the elders had called it, back when stories were told in twilight circles and language bent itself to song.
Tonight, it was more than a story. It was truth.
The river whispered.
Not in words, but in something deeper. In presence. In vibration. In the language of those who had returned to the dust but whose voices had never truly faded. It carried tales across its current—of warriors who walked barefoot into death, of mothers who whispered blessings over newborns destined for greatness, of healers who bled to save, and of kings who bowed to the weight of mercy.
Iyi closed his eyes and surrendered to the current of vision.
The world around him blurred.
And then—
The river changed.
He was no longer standing on the muddy bank. The water beneath his feet had become stardust. The current now flowed not through earth, but through the fabric of space itself—a wide, winding stream woven into the dark vastness of the cosmos.
The stars were no longer far away. They were within reach. Floating. Shimmering. Singing.
Each star was a soul, a memory. A life lived. A life waiting to return.
He stood still, breath caught somewhere between awe and surrender. In this celestial river, time ceased to matter. Past and present, pain and healing, shadow and light—they were all threads in the same weave. He was not just seeing—he was remembering. Not just with his mind, but with his spirit.
And in that memory, the river opened itself.
Faces emerged from the glow.
His grandmother, seated beneath a mango tree, singing lullabies to spirits that circled her gently like birds. His mother, eyes fierce and soft at once, braiding his hair while telling him the stories of gods who once walked the earth disguised as men. Baba Dimeji, whose drumbeat could summon rain. Sewa, her laughter echoing across the field where they once played, barefoot and unafraid.
And others—so many others. Faces he did not know but recognized nonetheless. A healer with a fire-marked cheek. A boy who died young but whose spirit guarded the village's river gate. A woman in white who danced with thunder. Ancestors long buried, yet still breathing in the stars.
They surrounded him—not to test him, not to judge him—but to remind him.
He was not alone. He had never been.
A soft tug brushed against his chest. It was not physical, but spiritual—a gentle pull that urged him forward. A call.
It was the river asking: Will you let go? Will you cross beyond fear and flesh, into the flow of everything?
He did not answer with words.
He answered with movement.
With a steadying breath, Iyi stepped fully into the river. The water shimmered and rose, not to consume but to embrace. The coolness wrapped around his ankles, then his knees, then his waist. It wasn't cold. It was alive—pulsing, aware, ancient. Like the breath of the world against his skin.
As the water climbed, Iyi felt the weight he carried begin to shift.
Not vanish.
But transform.
The grief he had buried for years didn't leave him—it dissolved into something more graceful. The hunger he had once known as a child became a compass, not a curse. The betrayals no longer burned—they shaped him like fire forges gold.
By the time the water reached his chest, he had released something deeper: fear. The fear of not being enough. The fear of being forgotten. The fear that redemption was reserved for others.
He floated.
Not on water. But on memory. On legacy. On possibility.
His feet left the riverbed.
For a moment, he was suspended—between earth and sky, between past and future. The sponge in his satchel beat in rhythm with his heart, as though confirming: You are ready.
Above him, the stars leaned closer. They weaved light around him, soft ribbons that danced across his skin and whispered truths into his bones. He felt the stories flow into him—of kingdoms long fallen, of sacred drums buried beneath roots, of guardians who stood watch over gates no man could see. He felt time itself curl around him like smoke.
And within that sacred stillness, he understood.
The River of Stars was more than a path through the heavens.
It was the journey of every soul.
To fall. To rise.
To forget. To remember.
To break. To heal.
To lose. To be reborn.
He was both traveler and keeper.
A bearer of the old songs.
A witness to forgotten light.
A maker of futures not yet imagined.
And as dawn crept across the sky, the celestial shimmer began to dim. The stars faded into the soft blush of early morning. The water beneath him transformed once more—no longer a cosmic river, but a stream winding through the heart of his homeland.
The vision receded, but the truth remained.
Iyi emerged from the river slowly, step by step, as the sun painted gold along the horizon. The sponge against his chest was silent now—but not dead. It rested, fulfilled, like a story that had found its ending only to begin again.
He stepped onto the bank.
Wet. Whole. Changed.
The world around him stirred—birds sang, light spilled across leaves, and the jasmine in the air opened its blossoms fully.
Iyi stood tall.
Not just as the boy who had once been broken. Not just as the man who had endured.
But as a bridge—between what was and what could be. Between heaven and soil. Between memory and promise.
He was no longer afraid of the weight he carried.
Because now, he carried it with grace.
With purpose.
With light.
And as he turned away from the river to face the rising sun, one truth lingered in his heart:
He carried the stars within him now.
And they would never fade.