"The River Waits"
She stood at the edge of the water, but the water did not greet her.
It had once whispered her name. Now it was still. Too still.
Osun sat with her feet in the river, her golden anklets dull in the moonlight. Around her, spirits of
children played in the currents—silent, translucent, forgotten.
"They no longer come," she murmured. "They fear me now. They were taught to."
A wind passed overhead. Oya.
"Let them go," Oya whispered, her voice rustling leaves in the dark. "They are wandering. But they
will return."
Osun closed her eyes. Lightning cracked across the sky. Sango.
"If they do not return, I will wake them," he thundered.
"No," Osun said softly. "We will wait. We will wait until they remember. Until the ache in their chest
brings them back. And we will hold them—not with judgment, but with joy."
And deep in a faraway city, a child woke from a dream soaked in honey, sweat, and tears.
Her name was Ava. And the river had called her.