Long before the noise of car horns filled the streets of Eshara, before phones lit up with gossip and news, there was a story whispered from one generation to the next. It was the kind of story people told in low voices, as if speaking it too loudly might bring the curse of it back again.
It was the story of a boy and a girl who should never have loved each other.
The boy was Chinedu, son of Judge Okafor, a man whose word was law in the town. The judge's name carried weight like iron, and his son was expected to carry it with pride. Chinedu was raised to be careful, polished, and perfect. He was taught that his life was not his own; it belonged to his family's honor.
The girl was Amara, daughter of Mama Ifeoma, the healer. Some called Mama Ifeoma a blessing, others spat the word "witch" when she passed. Amara grew up with both the gratitude of those who needed her mother's herbs and the hatred of those who feared her. She walked barefoot through the riverbanks, her hair wild, her eyes sharp, and her spirit unbent.
Chinedu and Amara lived in the same town, but their worlds were divided by walls stronger than stone. He was the judge's son. She was the healer's daughter. They were not meant to meet.
But fate is stubborn.
One evening, when the sun was sinking low and the forest glowed with gold, Chinedu rode his father's horse along the narrow path. He liked the forest because it was quiet, far from the eyes that always watched him. But that day, the horse stumbled. Its hoof caught on a root, and Chinedu was thrown hard to the ground. His head struck a stone, and blood ran warm down his face.
When he opened his eyes, the world was spinning. And then he saw her.
Amara.
She had been gathering herbs nearby, her basket half full. She rushed to him, her bare feet silent on the forest floor. Her eyes widened at the sight of his blood.
"Don't move," she said quickly, her voice steady but urgent.
Chinedu blinked at her, dazed. He knew her face, though they had never spoken. The healer's daughter. The one his father had warned him about.
"You're hurt," she said, kneeling beside him. She tore a strip from her dress and pressed it gently against his wound. Her hands were warm, her touch firm but careful.
He wanted to protest, to tell her he was fine, but the words caught in his throat. He could only watch her as she worked, her brow furrowed in concentration.
She pulled a pouch from her basket and sprinkled crushed leaves onto the cloth. The scent was sharp and earthy. "This will stop the bleeding," she murmured.
He stared at her, confused. "What are you doing?"
"Helping you," she replied simply.
"But… you shouldn't."
"Do you want to bleed to death?" She interrupted, her eyes flashing.
He fell silent.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of the forest: the chirping of crickets, the rustle of leaves, and the distant call of a bird. Amara's hands moved with practiced ease, binding the cloth around his head.
When she was done, she sat back and looked at him. "You'll be fine," she said. "But you should rest before you try to stand."
Chinedu swallowed hard. He had been taught to avoid her, to believe the whispers about her family. But in that moment, all he saw was a girl with kind eyes and steady hands.
"Thank you," he said softly.
Amara gave a small nod, as if it was nothing. But inside, her heart was racing. She had never been this close to him before, never looked into his eyes. She knew what people would say if they saw them together. She knew the danger of even this small act of kindness.
Yet, she did not move away.
The sun dipped lower, shadows stretching long across the forest floor. Amara glanced toward the path, her chest tightening. If anyone found them here, what would they say? The judge's son, lying wounded, being tended by the healer's daughter. The whispers would spread like fire.
She rose to her feet, brushing dirt from her dress. "I should go," she said, her voice low.
Chinedu opened his eyes, alarm flickering across his face. "Wait."
Amara hesitated.
"Don't tell anyone," he said quickly. "About this. About… you helping me."
Her lips curved into a faint, almost bitter smile. "Do you think I want people to know? They would say I bewitched you. That I caused your fall just so I could touch you."
His chest tightened at her words. He knew she was right. The town would twist the truth into poison.
Still, he found himself saying, "I don't believe that."
Her eyes met his, searching. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Then, from somewhere deeper in the forest, a voice called out. "Chinedu! Chinedu, where are you?"
It was one of his father's men.
Amara's eyes widened. She stepped back, her basket clutched tightly in her hands. "I have to go," she whispered.
Before he could reply, she turned and slipped into the trees, her figure vanishing like mist.
Chinedu struggled to sit up, his heart pounding, not just from the pain but from the strange, undeniable pull he felt toward her.
The footsteps of his father's man grew closer.
And as the forest closed around him, Chinedu realized that nothing in his life would ever be the same again.