Whispers by the river

Rerẹ́ did not lie down that night.

She sank.

Not into sleep—but into remembering.

The Descent

It began with water in her ears.

A slow trickle.

Not frightening.

Just familiar.

She closed her eyes beneath the carved rafters of the House of Listening—and opened them somewhere deeper.

Somewhere wet.

Somewhere forbidden.

She was underwater, but not drowning.

She could breathe.

Each inhale tasted like ink and ash.

Each exhale left behind syllables she had never learned but somehow knew.

And then, she saw it.

The Library Beneath

It wasn't a building.

It was a grove of pillars.

Rising from the riverbed like the bones of old gods.

Each pillar bore faces—hundreds of them—carved into its stone. Faces laughing, screaming, singing, dying.

And between them, books.

Scrolls wrapped in reed, bound in fish-skin.

Not stored on shelves.

But floating.

Drifting through the water like thoughts left too long unsaid.

She reached for one.

It unrolled at her touch.

The ink glowed.

And the first line read:

Ẹ̀nítàn was never alone.

The Whispering Scrolls

As she drifted, more scrolls unrolled around her.

Some wrote themselves as she passed.

Others wept.

Yes—wept.

She placed her ear to one.

It sobbed in the voice of a mother who had buried a daughter who never had a name.

Another scroll hissed.

Its words flared red and vanished.

Banned.

Burned.

But not forgotten.

And Rerẹ́ realized:

This was not a library of knowledge.

This was a library of refusal.

The Curator Appears

From the farthest pillar came a figure cloaked in shimmering thread.

No face.

Only a mask of mirrors.

She—or it—glided toward Rerẹ́.

The scrolls parted in reverence.

"You do not belong here," the figure said.

Rerẹ́ answered without fear.

"Then why was I summoned?"

The figure tilted its head.

"Because the surface has forgotten. But you remembered before you were taught. That makes you dangerous."

"I'm only a child."

"No," it replied. "You are a keeper. And keepers must choose."

Rerẹ́ swallowed.

"Choose what?"

The curator extended two scrolls.

One glowed white, humming softly.

The other pulsed deep crimson, its edges torn.

"One is the story they'll let you tell."

"The other is the one they'll try to erase again."

"You may carry only one to the waking."

The Choice

Rerẹ́ touched both.

The white scroll was beautiful—elegant, clean, and empty of pain.

The red one burned her fingers.

But it was alive.

And it carried names.

So many names.

Names of those silenced. Names of those never recorded. Names that wanted to be spoken.

She looked the masked figure in the face of mirrors and said:

"I choose the red."

The Ascension

The library shook.

Not in anger.

In release.

Scrolls unfurled like wings.

Ink danced upward.

And for the first time, the Drowned Library sang.

Not a melody.

But a reckoning.

Rerẹ́ rose—buoyed by voices, by verses, by witness.

As she breached the surface, she awoke—

gasping.

The Waking

Ola was already at her side.

Iyagbẹ́kọ stood behind him, silent.

Èkóyé held a bowl of cool water.

But Rerẹ́ did not reach for it.

She reached into her mouth.

And pulled out a scroll.

Tiny. Rolled. Wet with dreamwater.

"This is the one they tried to drown," she said.

She held it up to the sun.

It dried instantly.

And the first word written upon it was:

Ẹgbẹ́rẹ́.

Iyagbẹ́kọ gasped.

Èkóyé dropped the bowl.

Ola's knees buckled.

The word had not been spoken in 200 years.

Final Lines

Far away, in the capital, alarms triggered in the deepest vaults of the Archive.

Unwritten histories flared red across secure terminals.

And deep underground…

…the Drowned Library turned another page.