Not every village sits on a map. Some perch delicately between heartbeat and history, cradled in the creases of forgotten prayers. One such place was Umunwagbara—the Village at the Edge of Time.
No road led there. Only memory.
Odogwu had not planned to go. But the wind from the Whispering Grove began carrying a name none of them recognized—Umunwagbara, Umunwagbara… come, come, come...
It began as a chant. Then a longing.
Children dreamt of huts with windows into the stars. Elders spoke of a place they had never visited, but missed deeply.
And so, on the morning the stars blinked longer than usual, Odogwu, Zuru, Aisha, and three others walked toward where no footpath pointed.
For seven days, they moved.
Not by direction.
But by dream.
The ground beneath them shimmered at dusk.
Birds flew in spirals, not straight lines.
And trees leaned forward, as if listening with anticipation.
Then on the seventh dawn, they saw it.
A village of twenty-one compounds, each painted with symbols not seen since the Old Covenant Scrolls of Uloka.
There were no fences.
No markets.
No noise.
Yet it breathed.
Children with golden eyes and gray hair played beside yam mounds that sang. Women wove mats from threads of smoke. Elders sat in silence that thundered with meaning.
Zuru whispered, "Are they real?"
A woman replied without turning, "Are you?"
Her voice was not aggressive. Just curious.
She beckoned Odogwu forward.
"You have remembered much," she said. "But some memories lie at the edge of time. Here, we hold them."
They were welcomed not with food or greetings, but with questions.
"What is the smell of your grandmother's tears?"
"How many of your dreams belong to someone else?"
"Do your footsteps match the rhythm of your ancestors, or have they forgotten how to dance?"
Each question was a key. A mirror. A riddle.
And as they answered, the village shifted.
Walls became stories.
Fireplaces became mouths that recited parables.
The trees did not shade; they taught.
One said to Aisha: "The silence you fear is where your truest song sleeps."
Another murmured to Zuru: "Speak less to be heard deeper."
And to Odogwu, the oldest tree bent low and said:
"You carry memory like firewood, piled and piled. But beware—it must warm, not burn."
That evening, the sky turned violet.
Not the color.
The emotion.
A twilight thick with memory and foreboding.
A boy led them to the center of the village—a flat stone that pulsed with heartbeat.
"It is time," he said.
Time for what?
To dream together.
They lay on mats made of silence.
Closed their eyes.
And dreamt.
Each one found themselves in a past not theirs—but deeply familiar.
Odogwu stood in a field, watching Orie as a young man till soil that bled stories.
Aisha danced with a version of herself that had never left the village of her birth.
Zuru walked among unborn children, all chanting, "Tell us our names before we arrive!"
Then, a voice echoed in all their minds:
"You are here because you remembered. But if you wish to lead the remembering, you must pass the test of time."
They awoke gasping.
In the center of the circle, the heartbeat stone now glowed.
"Place your hands," said the boy.
They did.
And each saw not a vision—but a decision.
Odogwu saw two paths:
One where he built a monument so grand it silenced the very voices it was meant to honor.
Another where he became nameless, but every child who sang under a tree unknowingly carried his legacy.
Zuru saw a future of glory, and one of obscurity—but joy.
Aisha saw power or peace.
They chose.
Together.
Not aloud.
But with hearts tuned to the music of Umunwagbara.
When they lifted their hands, the stone faded.
The boy nodded. "Now, you are ready."
"Ready for what?" Aisha asked.
"To carry the river backward. To plant trees in deserts. To make forgotten names household words."
They turned to leave.
But there was no farewell.
Just silence.
And as they looked back, the village was gone.
Only a single tree stood where it had been, its bark carved with one word:
"Ncheta" — To Remember.
Back in Elegosi, the wind had changed.
It now smelled of time—ripe, ripe with possibility.
The next phase of Oru had begun.
And the Village at the Edge of Time whispered in every gust:
"Do not build only for today. Build for the day that remembers you."