Dawn did not feel like morning.
It felt like judgment.
The sky turned grey slowly, as if the sun itself was afraid to rise over the grove. A thin mist clung to the ground, wrapping around the roots like smoke that refused to disappear.
Chukwuemeka had not slept.
Neither had Sadiq or Amara.
They sat together near the edge of the village square, saying nothing. Words felt useless now. The night had already said too much.
Roosters crowed weakly in the distance.
Life was trying to continue.
But the ground still remembered.
Then the earth trembled once.
Not violently.
Like a knock.
The tree was calling.
Chukwuemeka stood first.
"It's time," he said.
Sadiq swallowed hard. Amara stood beside him without hesitation. The three of them walked toward the grove together, each step heavier than the last.
The tree looked different in daylight.
Less like a shadow.
More like a wound.
Its bark had cracked open in several places, revealing dark lines that ran through the trunk like veins. The roots had spread farther overnight, reaching the edge of nearby farmland.
If nothing changed soon, the village would not survive another week.
They stopped in front of it.
The voice rose immediately.
You came back.
It sounded calmer now.
Certain.
Chukwuemeka spoke first.
"You said one of us must become the keeper," he said. "Explain what that means."
The branches creaked slowly above them.
The keeper stands between hunger and the world, the voice replied. The keeper listens when I speak and refuses when I demand too much.
Amara frowned.
"That sounds like control," she said.
It is balance, the tree answered.
Sadiq shook his head.
"And what happens to the keeper?" he asked.
For a moment, the tree did not respond.
Then:
The keeper does not leave.
Silence followed.
A long, heavy silence.
Chukwuemeka already knew.
"Rooted," he said quietly.
Yes.
Amara's eyes filled with tears.
"You mean trapped."
Anchored, the voice corrected.
Sadiq stepped back.
"No," he said. "There must be another way."
"There isn't," Chukwuemeka replied gently. "That's why the story keeps repeating."
The wind moved through the grove, carrying the smell of damp earth.
Amara looked from Sadiq to Chukwuemeka.
"You knew this would happen," she said.
Chukwuemeka nodded slowly.
"I hoped I was wrong."
The roots shifted closer, but not threateningly.
Waiting.
Sadiq's voice trembled.
"If nobody chooses… what happens?"
The ground answered for the tree.
A deep crack split the soil nearby.
I grow, the voice said simply.
That was enough.
Tears rolled down Sadiq's face.
"I don't want to disappear," he whispered.
Chukwuemeka placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You wouldn't disappear," he said. "You would become part of the story."
"That's worse," Sadiq replied.
Amara wiped her eyes.
Then she stepped forward.
Both boys spoke at once.
"No."
She didn't stop.
"I've been hearing it since I was small," she said. "Even before the ground opened. Even before the village remembered."
The tree grew very still.
"I think," Amara continued, voice shaking but steady, "it has been waiting for someone who doesn't fear it or worship it."
She placed her hand on the rough bark.
The grove held its breath.
Sadiq grabbed her arm. "Amara, don't—"
She smiled sadly.
"Someone has to end the running."
Chukwuemeka's chest tightened painfully.
"You don't understand what it will take from you," he said.
Amara nodded.
"I do," she replied. "That's why I'm not afraid."
The roots began to move.
Slowly.
Gently.
They curled around her feet like vines around stone.
Sadiq started crying openly.
"Stop!" he shouted. "Please stop!"
Amara looked back at him.
"Listen to me," she said. "The keeper doesn't feed it. The keeper reminds it what it almost became."
The tree's voice lowered, softer than ever before.
You choose this?
Amara closed her eyes.
"Yes."
The roots tightened.
Not violently.
Firmly.
They wrapped around her ankles, then her legs, sinking into the soil beneath her. The ground opened just enough to hold her in place.
She gasped once from the cold.
Then stood still.
Chukwuemeka could not look away.
He remembered his grandmother's stories.
Now he understood them.
The trunk of the tree shifted, forming a hollow space within the bark. It did not swallow her. It stood beside her, like something acknowledging an equal.
The dark veins in the bark dimmed.
The ground stopped trembling.
Birds slowly returned to the trees above.
The voice spoke one last time.
The hunger sleeps.
The grove became quiet.
Not tense.
Not waiting.
Just quiet.
Sadiq fell to his knees.
Amara's lower body was now part of the earth, roots woven around her like living ropes. But she was still there. Still breathing.
Still human.
She opened her eyes and looked at them.
"You see?" she said weakly. "It's… quiet."
Chukwuemeka nodded, tears falling freely now.
"Yes," he said. "It is."
Sadiq crawled forward carefully.
"Will you… still talk to us?" he asked.
Amara smiled.
"Of course," she said. "Someone has to make sure it behaves."
The tree did not respond.
It did not need to.
The silence itself was proof.
The curse had not ended.
But it had changed.
And sometimes, change is the closest thing to victory.
The sun finally rose fully over the village, touching the grove with warm light. For the first time since the earth began to open, the soil looked like soil again.
Chukwuemeka exhaled slowly.
"It's over," he said.
Amara shook her head gently.
"No," she replied. "It's just… quieter now."
Sadiq sat beside her, unwilling to leave.
The village would rebuild. Crops would grow again. Children would return to playing in the square.
But the grove would remain.
And at its center, beneath the shadow of the ancient branches, the keeper of the silent roots would listen.
Always listening.
End Of Part 2