The Invitation

The rain came down in heavy sheets, drumming against the rusted rooftops of Lagos as Nia Okafor hurried down the crowded streets of Yaba. The city smelled of wet earth, fried plantain, and exhaust fumes. Her coat clung to her damp skin, and she tightened her grip on the old leather bag slung over her shoulder. Inside was the one thing that had kept her awake for nights—a letter with no sender, no stamp, only her name written in flowing gold ink.

Nia Okafor,

You are cordially invited to an event of great significance.

The memories you seek await you.

Midnight. St. Giles Library. Come alone.

The words had burned in her mind ever since she found the envelope slipped beneath her apartment door two nights ago. She had tried to ignore it, but something about the message, about the phrase the memories you seek, wouldn't let her rest.

What memories?

She had always felt like something was missing. Moments from her childhood were hazy, as if parts of her life had been carefully erased. There were names she couldn't recall, places she felt she had been but couldn't prove. And then there was the dream, the same dream she had for years. A boy's voice calling her name, his face always blurred.

Now, someone claimed to have answers.

Nia reached St. Giles Library just before midnight. The building stood like a forgotten relic, its tall, crumbling walls swallowed by creeping vines. The city had abandoned it years ago, but tonight, a faint glow flickered through the broken stained-glass windows.

She hesitated. Was this a trap? A scam? Or something worse?

Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the heavy wooden doors.

The air inside smelled of dust and old books. The grand hall stretched before her, lined with towering shelves, their contents long since removed. At the center of the room, a single candle burned atop an ornate wooden table. Around it, shadowy figures stood in silence, their faces obscured by dark veils.

A woman in an emerald-green dress stepped forward. Her presence commanded the room, and when she spoke, her voice was like silk wrapped around steel.

"Welcome, Nia Okafor," she said. "We've been expecting you."

The doors behind Nia slammed shut.

Nia's breath caught in her throat as the heavy doors behind her slammed shut. She turned instinctively, tugging at the iron handle, but it didn't budge. A trap.

She spun back toward the figures in the room, her pulse hammering. The woman in emerald remained still, her dark eyes assessing Nia with an unsettling calm. The candlelight flickered against the intricate embroidery of her dress, patterns that looked almost ancient.

"Who are you?" Nia demanded, forcing her voice to stay steady.

The woman smiled, a slow, deliberate expression that sent a chill through Nia's spine. "You came here seeking answers. We offer them… for a price."

The veiled figures shifted slightly, their presence looming like ghosts in the dimly lit library. Nia swallowed hard, every instinct in her body telling her to run. But she didn't.

Instead, she reached into her bag and pulled out the letter. "What does this mean? Who sent it?"

The woman tilted her head slightly. "You did."

Nia's fingers clenched around the parchment. "That's impossible."

"Is it?" The woman gestured toward the table. "Sit, Miss Okafor. Let me show you why you are here."

Nia hesitated before stepping forward, her boots echoing against the stone floor. She lowered herself onto the wooden chair, watching as the woman slid a small wooden box toward her. It was old, its surface carved with swirling patterns that seemed to shift under the candlelight.

"Open it," the woman instructed.

Nia hesitated, then carefully lifted the lid. Inside, resting on a bed of dark velvet, was a single glass vial filled with a shimmering, silver-blue liquid. It pulsed faintly, like something alive.

Her chest tightened.

"What is this?" she whispered.

The woman's expression remained unreadable. "A memory," she said. "One that was stolen from you."

The room seemed to close in around Nia. Her mind screamed that this was impossible, that memories couldn't be taken, couldn't be bottled. But deep down, something inside her recognized it.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for the vial.

"You must drink it to remember," the woman said.

A thousand thoughts flooded Nia's mind. What if it was poison? What if it was a trick? What if she wasn't ready to remember?

But before she could decide, the shadows around her stirred.

One of the veiled figures let out a sharp, inhuman breath.

"The auction has begun," the woman in emerald announced. "And your past is on the bidding block."