Fear

Ada jolted awake, his heart thundering in his chest as though it was still fleeing from the faceless monster. For a few disorienting moments, he couldn't grasp where he was.

The hut's darkness felt heavy, almost suffocating, and he was certain he could still hear the faint taunting whispers that had followed him in his sleep. He remained frozen on his sleeping mat, blinking up at the thatched roof above him, as if expecting the shadows to shift and come alive.

He took in deep breaths to calm himself, his throat dry and his skin damp with sweat, as if he had truly been running. The nightmare had been more than vivid—it had been real in a way that was hard to dismiss, its details lingering in the corners of his mind.

He could still see the hills in the distance, the shifting shape of the faceless shadow, and feel the ground tremble beneath him as he tried to escape. The sensations clung to him, wrapping around his waking mind like a stubborn fog that refused to lift.

Slowly, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, his muscles tense and aching, as if they remembered the effort of the chase.

He could hear the early sounds of the waking compound outside: chickens clucking, their calls growing louder, and the first murmur of voices.

The familiar noises helped to ground him, pulling him back to the present moment. He reached for the clay pot by his mat and took a sip of water, the coolness sliding down his throat and helping to ease the dryness.

Ada's gaze wandered toward the hut's entrance, where the pale light of dawn was just beginning to filter through the gaps in the doorframe.

He rose stiffly from his mat, stretching his limbs as he did, and shuffled toward the door, pushing it open with a hesitant hand.

The fresh air that swept in carried with it the scents of earth, grass, and the faint fragrance of the hibiscus flowers that grew around the compound.

He stepped outside, feeling the chill of the early morning brush against his skin, invigorating him and chasing away the last remnants of the nightmare's grip.

The sky above was a blend of soft pinks and oranges, as if the day itself was slowly awakening from a deep slumber.

The sun had not yet risen fully, and the compound was still wrapped in the gentle hush of dawn. Ada looked around at the scattered rondavels, their thatched roofs and painted walls standing against the backdrop of rolling hills that faded into the horizon.

He focused on the symbols painted on the huts, their earthy reds, yellows, and greens now illuminated by the delicate light. Each pattern told a story—stories of his people's past, their battles, and the spirits that dwelled within the land.

They were symbols of protection, meant to keep harm at bay, but for him, they had never quite managed to keep his nightmares away.

He glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see the faceless shadow lurking just beyond the boundaries of the compound, as it had in his dreams.

But there was nothing there—only the sway of the banana trees in the wind and the distant shapes of children beginning to stir from their own sleep.

The world was waking up, and yet Ada couldn't shake the feeling that a part of the dream still clung to him, stubborn and unyielding.

It was as if the faceless monster hadn't entirely retreated into the darkness, but had instead left a lingering presence in the air around him.

His mind drifted back to the old man's voice from the dream, the deep and resonant words: "You must name your fear, child."

The memory of those words struck a chord within him. What did it mean to name his fear? And how could doing so possibly help him conquer something that seemed beyond his understanding, something that came for him only when the world was quiet and his eyes were closed?

The thought stirred an uneasy feeling in his chest. He turned his gaze toward the central rondavel—the old hearth. It was the largest of the huts, and unlike the others, it was a place of gathering, a place where his people came together to share stories, seek wisdom, and honor their ancestors.

The hearth at its center had been cold for some time, unused since the last of the ceremonies. Yet, in the dream, it had been alive with flames, a fire that seemed to reveal truths that lay buried in darkness.

Without fully understanding why, Ada found himself moving toward the central rondavel, his bare feet brushing against the cool earth as he walked.

The door creaked softly as he pushed it open, and inside, the darkness of the hut felt welcoming, like a shelter from the lingering chill of dawn. The hearth stood at the center, its circular shape surrounded by ashes that had long since gone cold.

Kneeling beside it, Ada found the familiar bundle of kindling and striking stone. He hesitated for a moment, his hand trembling as he reached for the stone.

In his mind, he could see the face of the old man from his dream, the gaze that seemed to weigh his every thought, his every doubt. What if there really was something to be found in the flames?

What if his fears were not just stories spun by his mother, but pieces of something real, something that had roots deeper than he could imagine?

He struck the stone against the kindling. Sparks flew, catching in the dry twigs, and slowly, the fire began to grow.

It flickered uncertainly at first, a small, weak flame that struggled against the darkness, but then it caught hold, climbing higher and higher until it illuminated the hut.

The warmth washed over him, chasing away the chill that had settled into his bones. He stared into the heart of the fire, watching the flames twist and sway, each movement creating shadows that seemed to dance on the walls.

And as he watched, shapes began to emerge within the fire—vague at first, then growing sharper, more defined.

He saw faces among the flames, faces that seemed to belong to no one and yet everyone.

They were not people he recognized, but they wore expressions that spoke of knowing, as though they saw the very thing that lay hidden in his heart.

One face, in particular, seemed to rise above the others—a face that carried the weight of years, lined and wise, with eyes like embers that glowed steadily in the light.

"You've come seeking answers," the face seemed to say, though no sound left its lips. The voice was inside him, echoing in his mind as if the flames themselves were speaking. "But the answers you seek are not hidden in the darkness. They are within you."

Ada felt a stirring within his chest, a strange sense of recognition. He could not say how, but the fire seemed to know him—to understand the fears that had plagued his nights and stolen his peace.

The old man's voice echoed again, "Name your fear, and it will lose its power. Give it a shape, and it will cease to be a shadow."

The words resonated deeply, pulling at something in the depths of his being.

He thought of the faceless monster, of the darkness that chased him, and of the stories his mother had told about the spirits and graves.

All of it seemed connected, like threads woven into a single tapestry, and somewhere in that weave, his fear had taken root.

He stood slowly, the firelight flickering on his face, and turned to face the entrance of the rondavel.

The dawn was breaking fully now, the sky glowing bright and clear. The dream still lingered, but it no longer held him captive. Ada stepped out into the morning, a new resolve settling in his heart.

He would find a way to name his fear, to bring it into the light, and in doing so, he would free himself from the shadows that had chased him for so long.