The attic smelled of old rain and quieter things. Amara had climbed up there to escape her cousin Dele's endless teasing, but now — flashlight in one hand, dust in her hair — she found herself staring at something she had never seen before.
A brass lantern, small enough to fit in her palm, sat on a tower of forgotten suitcases. Its glass was clouded and its handle bent, but when Amara tilted it toward the flashlight, tiny letters flared inside the glass: *only truth burns bright.*
"Grandma?" she whispered, though she knew Grandma Tola was three floors below, humming over a pot of egusi.
Something clicked inside the lantern. It wasn't loud. It was the sound of a secret deciding to trust you.
When Amara carried it downstairs, Grandma Tola's spoon clattered against the pot. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then Grandma sat down slowly, wiped her hands on her wrapper, and said the strangest thing Amara had ever heard:
"Well. It has finally chosen you."
— *to be continued* —