The last market before dawn

ADAORA’S POV Rain hammered the zinc roof like it had a personal vendetta. The generator in the corner coughed, sputtered, and continued its dull, stubborn humming. Adaora Nkem didn’t look up from the receipt book on the counter. She wasn’t calculating anything. She just needed something for her hands to do so her mind wouldn’t wander to places she feared. The shop smelled of dust, groundnut oil, and a lingering emptiness she couldn’t name. The bells above the door chimed abruptly as someone swung it open. Chikwudi stormed in, his slippers slapping the wet floor. Ada, His voice had the sharp edges of frustration. You didn’t tell me you went to the clinic again. Adaora continued circling numbers on the page. It’s nothing. Her voice was calm, too calm like someone forcing the air to stay still around them. Just a routine checkup. Routine? Chikwudi scoffed and threw his hands up in the air. You’ve been going every week since Mama… since she passed. You think I don’t know something is wrong? The generator light flickered, shadows moving across Adaora’s face like black water. The only other person in the shop, a small elderly woman clutching detergent, watched them with quiet worry. Adaora’s hand stilled. Chikwudi, not here. No. He took a step closer. Exactly here. Because you act like everything is normal. You don’t sleep. You barely eat. You walk around like someone is chasing you. Adaora closed the receipt book with a suddenthud. I said drop it. I won’t. He leaned forward, lowering his voice but not his anger. Ada… You’re blaming yourself again, aren’t you? Her jaw tightened. Her eyes glistened—whether from tears or rage, she couldn’t tell. I was the last person with her. Her voice cracked slightly. I argued with Mama that night. I told her to stop controlling my life. Those were the last words she heard from my mouth. Chikwudi swallowed hard. Adaora, listen. Just stop. She turned away, but the words burst out anyway. If I hadn’t yelled… if I hadn’t upset her… maybe she wouldn’t have collapsed. The old woman slowly approached the counter, placing her money down. She touched Adaora’s hand lightly. My daughter… grief is wicked. It lies. Adaora let out a shaky breath but didn’t reply. The woman left, the bell chiming softly behind her. Chikwudi moved closer, gentler now. Ada… people are talking about you. They’re worried. Let them talk. Adaora’s voice was suddenly sharp, like a blade dragged across glass. He hesitated. I heard something today… at the junction. Adaora’s shoulders stiffened, but she didn’t face him. Something about a market… Adaora froze. Chikwudi continued slowly, choosing his words. A market that appears before dawn. Only on Fridays. They say people go there when their hearts are too heavy… when the pain is too much. Adaora forced a laugh, but it trembled. And what do they buy there? Tomatoes? Painkillers? Memories. The word cut through the stale air like a cold wind. Adaora turned to face him. What? People trade memories. Regrets. Even parts of their future. Chikwudi swallowed. They say if your pain is deep enough… the market will call you. Adaora felt the world shift under her feet. She wanted to tell him it was nonsense. A joke. A village tale meant to scare children. But her throat tightened. Because she heard something two nights ago. Like a bell ringing far away. Like someone calling her name from a place she couldn’t see. The generator flickered again once… twice… then held steady as if waiting for her reaction. Chikwudi, she said quietly. Don’t bring this kind of story to me. He lifted his chin, worried. I’m telling you because I’m scared for you. Adaora looked out the window. Rain blurred the streetlights into streaks of gold. The whole world felt far, slippery, and unreal. She closed her eyes. For a moment, she heard it again. A faint bell. A whisper. Mama’s voice. Calling. She opened her eyes sharply. 'I’m fine,' she lied. Let’s close the shop. Chikwudi didn’t look convinced, but he nodded. As he pulled down the metal shutter, Adaora stepped outside into the rain. It hit her skin cold and sharp, grounding her. But somewhere beyond the wet wind, beyond the dark houses… She felt it. A pull. A call. A promise. Something was waiting for her in the hours before dawn. And for the first time in weeks… Her heartbeat wasn’t slow and heavy. It was alert. Awake. Listening.