The Weight of All Roads

Ayola sat at the center of the Crossroad of Ginen.

Not a word was spoken. Not a step was taken.

And yet, the universe opened.

Her breath slowed. Her heartbeat echoed like thunder in a valley—then faded into a whisper. Her body melted into the dust and light of the crossroad. Her mind slipped past time.

Then she saw.

A million threads unraveled before her eyes—spinning, spiraling, intersecting.

Each thread was a soul.

Each soul stood at a crossroad.

An old woman in a dark city, hands trembling over a letter she could not open.

A boy in the mountains, torn between staying with his dying father or chasing his only chance at escape.

A priest holding a blade behind his back, whispering forgiveness before choosing vengeance.

A pregnant soldier.

A lost king.

A girl with fire in her chest and nowhere to put it.

Ayola saw them all.

Not just what they were choosing—but why.

She felt the heat of their fear, the hunger of their desires, the ache of their guilt.

She saw the ones who begged for signs. The ones who cursed the silence.

The ones who knew they were choosing wrong—but walked the path anyway.

And the ones who didn't even know they were deciding their fate until it was too late.

Their prayers rose around her like mist:

"Should I stay?"

"Can I forgive them?"

"What if I'm wrong?"

"Is this love or weakness?"

"Will the gods hate me if I leave?"

Some screamed. Some wept. Some smiled and stepped boldly forward, unaware of the cost.

Ayola wept with them.

Tears flowed not from sadness alone—but from the immensity of what it meant to choose.

And then she heard something deeper beneath their prayers: the plans.

Each soul had a plan—an escape route, a sacrifice, a compromise, a lie to protect themselves, a hope stitched together with fear. And through each plan ran a thread of truth and illusion so tightly woven that Ayola could no longer tell which came first.

The wind stirred beside her. She turned, thinking Papa Legba had returned.

But it was not him.

It was a reflection of herself—worn, older, trembling with too much knowing. A version of Ayola who had stayed in this seat too long, burdened with too many crossroads.

"You cannot carry every prayer," the reflection said. "You cannot choose for them."

Ayola looked out again.

And for the first time, she understood what Papa Legba meant:

The Crossroad does not give answers. It holds them.

And whoever dares to sit must learn to listen without fixing.

To see without judgment.

To feel without drowning.

She clenched her staff and whispered, "Let them choose."

At that, something shifted in the roads.

The dust around her glowed faintly, and the sigil of silence on her chest flared—not as command, but as recognition.

She was no longer just watching.

She was witnessing