Sleep came in pieces.
Not rest. Not peace. Just small, broken moments where the body shut down while the mind stayed awake.
Sadiq lay on the floor of his mother's hut, staring at the roof. The thatch above him shifted gently with the wind, but every movement felt deliberate, as if something above was adjusting its weight.
He did not close his eyes.
Every time he did, the roots returned.
They did not chase him in his dreams anymore. They waited. Curled. Patient. Like they knew he would come to them on his own.
Across the village, Amara sat upright on her sleeping mat, knees drawn to her chest. She had wrapped cloth around her ears, but it did nothing. The voice did not travel through sound.
It rose from inside the bones.
You are awake, it whispered.
She swallowed hard.
"Yes," she said before she could stop herself.
Silence followed.
Then, slowly:
Good.
Her stomach twisted.
In another hut, Chukwuemeka jolted awake with a sharp gasp. Pain flared through his ribs as he sat up too fast. Sweat soaked his skin. His heart hammered like it was trying to escape.
He had dreamed of his grandmother again.
She stood beneath the tree, younger than he remembered, her hands red with soil. She was crying, but smiling at the same time.
"You can't save them all," she had said.
He knew that voice.
That was not memory.
That was warning.
Chukwuemeka stood, ignoring the pain, and stepped outside.
The village was wrong.
Too still.
No insects. No dogs. Even the wind had stopped. The moon hung above, pale and thin, lighting the paths between huts like exposed veins.
Then he heard it.
Singing.
Low. Soft. Familiar.
His blood ran cold.
It was a lullaby.
The same one his grandmother used to hum.
It was coming from the direction of the grove.
"No," he whispered.
At the same moment, Sadiq sat up sharply.
He heard it too.
And without fully understanding why, he stood and walked outside.
Barefoot.
Silent.
Drawn.
Amara was already moving.
Her body felt light, like it no longer belonged fully to her. She walked with calm steps, eyes half-closed, following the pull deep in her chest.
None of them saw the others at first.
They converged like sleepwalkers.
The grove welcomed them.
The tree stood taller than before. Its bark glistened under the moonlight, wet and breathing. The roots had shifted again, spreading wider, closer to the village.
It had been busy.
You came, the voice said, warm and pleased. I did not call you aloud. That means you are learning.
Chukwuemeka stepped forward, fury burning through his fear.
"You invaded their sleep," he said. "That was forbidden."
By whom? the voice asked gently.
The roots lifted slightly, hovering above the ground.
You taught them the rules, it continued. Not me.
Sadiq's hands trembled.
"I didn't mean to come," he whispered. "I just… woke up here."
That is what readiness feels like, the tree replied.
Amara looked up at the branches.
"You're getting stronger," she said.
Yes, the voice admitted. Because someone among you fed me tonight.
The words hit like a slap.
Chukwuemeka turned sharply.
"Fed you?" he demanded. "Who?"
The tree did not answer immediately.
Its silence stretched.
Then, softly:
Betrayal does not always look like blood.
Sadiq's breath caught.
Amara's eyes widened slowly.
Chukwuemeka followed her gaze.
Down.
At Sadiq's hands.
They were dirty.
Fresh soil clung beneath his nails.
Sadiq stared at them in horror.
"I—I didn't—" His voice broke. "I dreamed I was digging. Just a small hole. I thought it was nothing."
The ground beneath the tree pulsed.
Even crumbs feed hunger, the voice said.
Chukwuemeka felt something inside him crack.
"That's how it starts," he said hoarsely. "Unconscious offerings. Sleepwalking worship."
The roots slid closer to Sadiq, brushing his ankles lovingly.
Sadiq backed away, shaking.
"I didn't mean it," he cried. "Please!"
Amara stepped between him and the roots.
"Enough," she said. "You said you wanted a keeper, not a slave."
The tree paused.
The grove darkened.
And what are you willing to give? it asked her.
Amara hesitated.
That hesitation was noticed.
The roots surged upward suddenly, surrounding them in a loose circle, not touching—but close enough to feel the cold radiating from them.
One of you will belong to me by dawn, the voice said calmly. Willing or not.
Chukwuemeka's heart pounded.
"This wasn't the agreement," he said.
There was never an agreement, the tree replied. Only delay.
The lullaby began again, louder this time, twisting into something sharp and wrong.
Sadiq clutched his head, screaming.
Amara fell to her knees, breath coming in short gasps.
Chukwuemeka stepped forward, rage and fear burning together.
"You want a keeper?" he shouted. "Then listen carefully."
The singing stopped.
The tree leaned closer.
Chukwuemeka met the darkness without flinching.
"If you take one of them against their will," he said, voice shaking but firm, "I will tear your story open. I will tell the village everything. Your name. Your origin. Your lie."
The grove trembled.
For the first time, the tree hesitated.
Because secrets are food.
But exposure is poison.
The roots slowly withdrew.
Dawn, the voice said quietly. We will speak again at dawn.
The pressure lifted.
The lullaby faded.
The three of them stood there, shaking, alive, but changed.
Sleep would never be safe again.
And all of them knew—
The tree was no longer waiting.
It was preparing.