Port-au-Prince, Haiti
Three Days Ago
The house was quiet, except for the hum of insects and the slow, fading rhythm of an old woman's prayer. Rain hadn't come, but the sky churned low and gray, as if mourning quietly. Inside a crumbling wooden shack on the edge of a mountain, a boy had died.
Zion lay on the floor, clothed in simple white linen. His skin had not yet gone cold, though no breath passed his lips. His body bore no wounds—but his soul had been taken in betrayal. His uncle's greed had poisoned his bloodline and left him to die in silence.
But death was not the end.
His grandmother, Mama Odetta, knelt barefoot in front of his body. The floor was covered in seven veves—sacred symbols drawn in salt and cornmeal—each belonging to one of the ancient Lwa, spirits she had served since she was a girl.
She did not cry. Not yet. Her voice cracked only once, in the beginning.
"Papa Legba… open the gate," she whispered, tracing a small cross in the air.
"You who stand between life and death… between now and what comes after."
She poured white rum slowly in a circle around Zion's body, and cut her palm with a rusted razor blade, letting a single drop of blood fall onto his chest.
"Damballa Wedo, serpent of creation, father of life…
Ayida Wedo, rainbow of the heavens, mother of harmony…
Maman Brigitte, protector of the forgotten dead… take him gently."
The wind outside shifted.
The flame of the candle at Zion's head turned blue for a breath, then back to gold.
Mama Odetta's hand rested on his still chest.
"He was born in fire. Raised in shadow. The world took from him what little he had…
If there is any part of him worthy of your plan, then carry him into it.
If there is still breath left to give, give it back when the time is right."
Then silence.
Long. Heavy. Absolute.
Outside, a single leaf fell from the mango tree. The wind curled around the house once, then vanished.
Mama Odetta didn't know where the soul would go. Only that it no longer belonged to this world.
She sat by him until night became morning.
Far away, in another world…
A storm raged.
In the arms of a wounded youth running barefoot across jagged ground, a boy's body was being carried—limp, breathless, bleeding.
Zion's body. But not yet Zion.
His soul lay dormant, curling through a fog of memories not his own. Unseen. Unheard. But watched.
Somewhere, between this world and the last, the gates had opened.