Zara stepped into the Night Market, a hidden alley in Lagos where vendors sold more than just goods – they sold dreams and nightmares. A whisper spread that the market appeared only when someone was marked for death. Zara didn't believe it, until she saw Amara, a girl who'd gone in for a simple deal, standing frozen like a statue.
Amara's eyes turned milky white. "They took my voice," she whispered. Zara followed her gaze to a stall with no seller. The sign read: "Whispers of the Past." A figure in a hooded cloak beckoned. Zara approached, and the figure leaned in. "What do you want most?" it asked.
Zara thought of her sister, lost years ago. "Bring her back," she said. The figure handed her a small mirror. Zara's reflection showed her sister's face, smiling. But the voice was Amara's. "It's not her," Amara whispered behind her. The mirror shattered. Zara turned – the market was gone. Amara was gone. And Zara was left with nothing but the whisper: "You should've wanted less."