The baobab tree loomed like a sentinel over the village shrine—its gnarled trunk wide enough to house secrets, its branches tangled with whispers of the past. Beneath its shadow, the priest lingered, murmuring prayers older than memory. The chief stood nearby, his gaze fixed on the horizon, as if waiting for something he could not name.

Rosalinda felt it before she saw it.

The air thickened. The birds fell silent. Even the wind dared not stir. A stillness so complete it felt like the world ...