SECTION 3
That night, as the village settled into sleep, the whisper came again softer this time, almost tender. It curled through the raffia mat beneath her head, slipped beneath her dreams, and touched her with a strange familiarity.
Come.
The word wasn't spoken; it was felt like a hand brushing her shoulder in a dark room. She sat up sharply, her breath thin in her chest. Outside, the moon hung low, swollen, its pale light trembling on the surface of the river.
She stepped to the doorway of her hut. The night insects hummed, stubborn in their rhythm, as if nothing unusual was happening. But she knew better. Something had awakened something old, patient, and watching.
At the riverbank, the water moved differently. Not in waves or ripples, but in patterns as though it were breathing. She felt the pull again, deep inside her bones, the whisper sliding through her ribs like smoke.
You have heard me. Now you must answer.
Her heart hammered. She wanted to turn back, to run into the safety of her mother's arms, to bury her face in warm, familiar scents. But she stayed. Her feet refused to move away.
Slowly, she knelt, her fingers brushing the cool surface.
The river sighed.
And for the first time, it spoke not in whispers
but in a voice she understood.
And for the first time it spoke not in whisper but in a voice she understood