Chapter 3
995 Words
PRECELIA’S POV
The wooden box was warm.
Not warm like it had been sitting in the sun.
Warm like it had a heartbeat.
Adaora’s fingers hovered above the lid.
Her breath came shallow and uneven.
What… what’s inside?
The faceless vendor tilted its head, the shadow where its eyes should be shifting like smoke in a bottle.
A memory your mother surrendered.
Adaora’s throat tightened.
Why would she give up a memory?
Because it hurt her, the vendor murmured.
Or because she believed it would protect you.
The wooden box pulsed again.
The crowd of murmuring shadows behind her grew still.
Every lantern flickered.
Something in the market was listening.
Adaora swallowed hard, slid her fingers beneath the lid… and opened it.
A soft glow spilled out, swirling upward like mist.
Then the world around her dissolved.
THE MEMORY
Adaora blinked and found herself standing in a room she had never seen, yet felt painfully familiar.
A small kitchen.
Tin plates stacked neatly.
A young woman her mother stood by the stove stirring a pot of soup.
Except… Mama looked younger.
So much younger.
Her hair was tied in a simple scarf.
Her eyes are bright but tired.
And in her arms, a baby.
A tiny baby.
Adaora gasped.
That’s… me.
Her mother rocked the infant gently.
MAMA (softly):
Hush, Adaora. Mama is here. You’ll be fine.
A knock rattled the door.
Her mother froze.
Another knock, harder this time.
VOICE (outside, deep and angry)
Open this door, Ezinne!
Adaora felt her heart race.
Mama held the baby tighter.
MAMA:
Go away!
Her voice shook.
She wasn’t brave.
She was terrified.
The door rattled again.
VOICE: Do you think you can hide? I know what you did!
Adaora stepped closer to the memory unconsciously.
Who is that? She whispered, even though no one could hear her.
Her mother ran to a drawer, fumbling for something, a small brown envelope. She pressed it to the baby’s chest and whispered:
If anything happens to me… you must live. You must survive. Even if you don’t remember me.
Adaora’s breath broke.
Mama…
The knocks turned to pounding.
Wood splintered.
Her mother closed her eyes in anguish, and suddenly the kitchen blurred like smeared paint.
The scene shifted.
Mama was now outside, running along a dark bush path with baby Adaora strapped to her back. Tears streamed down her face.
MAMA:
Please… please just stay asleep…
The world shook with footsteps behind her.
Branches snapped.
Heavy breathing.
The same deep voice roared:
You can’t run from this!
Adaora’s vision blurred with tears.
Stop chasing her! She shouted.
But the memory didn’t hear her.
Her mother stumbled into a small clearing where woven baskets and lanterns hung in the air.
A market.
Not the same one Adaora stood in now, but a crueler, darker version.
The sky was black and purple.
Lanterns pulsed like beating hearts.
Vendors stepped forward, faceless, shadowy.
One of them whispered:
What do you bring to trade, Ezinne?
Mama fell to her knees.
MAMA:
Please… save my baby.
Her voice cracked.
I don’t care what you take. Her future must not be tied to him. To this life.
The vendor leaned close.
Then give us what matters most.
Adaora watched in horror as her mother, shaking and crying, placed something glowing into a bowl on the stall.
A memory.
A precious one.
The vendor lifted the bowl.
The trade is accepted.
The memory exploded into blinding white light.… BACK IN THE MARKET Adaora staggered backward as the vision vanished.
The wooden box clattered to the ground.
Her chest heaved.
Her mother’s voice lingered in her mind.
Her future must not be tied to him.
Adaora’s hands shook uncontrollably.
She turned to the faceless vendor.
Tell me who was chasing her.
Her voice cracked like a broken branch.
Tell me what she did. Tell me what I’m not remembering.
The vendor remained silent.
The entire market had gone still.
Then another voice drifted from behind a row of stalls.
Stronger. Older.
Dangerous.
Some memories, it said,
were taken for a reason.
Adaora spun around.
A new figure stood at the far end of the path.
Taller than the others.
Darker.
Its form flickered like smoke caught in a storm.
The other vendors bowed their heads.
The Master Vendor.
The one who controlled every trade.
Adaora felt fear crawl under her skin like ants.
The Master Vendor drifted closer, whispering in a voice as sharp as broken glass: Your mother came here to protect you.
A pause.
And now you have returned to finish what she started.
Adaora stepped backward.
I didn’t come to finish anything.
Didn’t you?
The Master Vendor tilted its head.
You came because your heart is heavy… and you want release.
Adaora opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
The Master Vendor extended a hand.
A long, thin wooden table rose from the ground between them.
On it appeared:
A small blue flame.
A glass vial.
A locked silver jar.
Choose, the Vendor whispered.
A memory to trade. The pain you want to lose.
Adaora stared at the table, her heart hammering.
Every item pulsed like it recognized her.
Like it wanted her.
Her breath trembled.
I didn’t say I wanted to trade anything.
The vendor leaned close.
Everyone who walks into this market comes seeking freedom. Even if they deny it.
Adaora stepped away.
But the Vendor’s next words froze her blood.
Trade your last memory of your mother’s final night, it whispered,
and you will finally be free from your guilt.
Adaora’s whole body went cold.
You… you can take that?
Easily.
Her chest tightened painfully.
If that memory disappeared…
No more nightmares.
No more guilt.
No more pain.
Just peace.
But the price,
She didn’t know the price.
And she was terrified.
I… I need time, she whispered.
The Master Vendor smiled, the shift in its shadowy face chilling.
Dawn approaches. Time is the only thing we do not sell.
- Writer
