The days that followed blurred.
Kaelo returned to his grandmother's house, but nothing felt like his own anymore. The walls seemed to breathe when he passed. The floor creaked not with age, but like it was listening. Even the air in the compound had shifted thicker, warmer, pulsing like blood through a wound.
And the worst part: Kaelo could no longer trust his reflection.
Each time he looked in a mirror, or in the silver plate Mama Naa used to use to catch rainwater, he saw his own face but different. His eyes would flicker dark for a second too long. His lips would twitch into a half-smile he didn't feel. One time, his reflection didn't move at all.
Mambé's words rang in his head: "You have time… but not forever."
On the third day, the symptoms began.
The first was the voice. Not a whisper now. A voice.
"She lied to you."
Kaelo stopped mid-step in the courtyard.
She fears what you are. She will try to chain you.
He gripped his head, pressing palms to his ears. Shut up.
"You already know I'm right. You can feel it. The hunger."
And the worst part Kaelo could feel it. Not like an appetite. Like an itch beneath his ribs, a power building with every breath he tried to hold down.
That night, he lit a fire in the center of the courtyard.
He took out Mama Naa's old calabash, the one she used for cleansing rituals, and poured in river water mixed with charcoal, shea bark, and red dust.
He dipped his fingers in and drew sigils on the ground. His grandmother had taught him once, in secret, when he was a boy too curious for his own good. He never thought he'd use them. Never thought he'd need them.
He sat. Waited.
Then he called her.
"Mambé. If you can hear me… I need you now."
The fire trembled, then flickered blue.
And she was there.
Not in body but her voice drifted in like wind over dry leaves. "You've started the rites. Good."
Kaelo blinked. "How are you here?"
"You opened the door," she said simply. "As did he."
He stared into the flames. "It's getting worse. I hear him. I feel him."
"Of course. He's not just in your head now, Kaelo. He's in your blood. He's learning you."
Kaelo's fists clenched. "Then tell me how to get him out."
There was a pause.
Then: "You don't. You bind him. You anchor yourself before he becomes more real in you than your own name."
Kaelo swallowed hard. "And if I fail?"
Mambé's voice darkened. "Then the old gods return through your skin. And the world bleeds for it."
That night, Kaelo dreamt again.
But this time… he didn't see fire or death.
He saw a boy.
Seven, maybe eight. Skinny. Eyes like Kaelo's. Dirty feet. He stood alone in a field of bones, clutching a wooden carving of a face the same mask, but smaller, broken in half.
The boy looked up at Kaelo.
And behind him, walking slowly with hands clasped behind his back, came Anoku in human form, dressed not in robes now but in a simple white wrapper. Regal. Calm. Watching.
The boy ran to Kaelo. Clung to his leg.
And Anoku said:
"Do you know him?"
Kaelo looked down.
And he did.
It was himself.
From long ago.
Before the silence.
Before Mama Naa raised him.
Kaelo looked back at Anoku. "What do you want from me?"
The god's voice was gentle now. Almost… sad.
"I want to finish what was started. You carry the wound of forgetting. I carry the memory."
Kaelo woke up gasping, the boy's wooden carving still clutched in his hand real, splintered, warm.