The summons came at dusk.
A tremor in the earth.
A shimmer in the river.
And then the water itself rose, forming a shape between wave and wind.
Not a figure.
A door.
Ola saw it first. He turned to Echo.
"It's for you."
Echo didn't flinch.
She had known this moment would come.
"Every singer must be sung through."
She stepped forward.
And the door opened.
The Trial Below Breath
The place was not a court.
Not a chamber.
It was a memory space—raw, formless, endless.
Echo stood in the center of nothing, surrounded by a silence that vibrated.
And then, a voice:
"You've carried many songs.
But one… you locked away."
The Voices Gather
The Riverchildren appeared first, eyes glowing.
Then the elders, their faces blurred by memory.
Then Ayíbíyè.
And last, the Queen of Tears—Ẹ̀nítàn—standing without judgment, but with sorrow.
"Echo," she said softly,
"What rhythm did you bury?"
The Song Never Sung
Echo's mouth opened. Then closed.
Her fingers twitched. Her knees trembled.
And then she whispered:
"It was mine."
Gasps did not come.
Only stillness.
She continued:
"Before I was Echo, I was Ẹlùwà.
A child of silence. A girl who knew too much too soon.
My first song was not a hymn. It was a scream.
And when I sang it—no one listened.
So I buried it… deep."
The Memory Replayed
The space shifted.
Now a village long gone.
A young girl—barefoot, bruised—stood in a square, chanting words no adult wanted to hear.
Names.
Accusations.
Truths.
"You said they vanished.
But I saw you take them.
You said they drowned.
But I heard them beg."
And the elders turned from her.
The Archive marked her as unstable.
And the rhythm? Erased.
Until she became Echo—carrier of other people's truths.
Never her own.
The River Speaks
The chamber rippled.
And the river's voice came—not angry.
But aching.
"Even song-bearers bleed.
Even Echoes must speak first before repeating others."
A drumbeat began.
Soft.
Low.
Waiting.
"Ẹlùwà," the river said,
"Sing. Not for us.
For yourself."
The First Cry
She knelt.
Hands shaking.
And then—no melody.
No harmony.
Just a cry.
Raw.
Shattered.
Unrhythmic.
But real.
And the space shook.
Because truth is not always beautiful.
Sometimes it breaks the drum before it binds.
They Listen
No one clapped.
No one spoke.
They listened.
The song—if it could be called that—rippled through them.
And something long trapped was released.
A rhythm not for performance.
But for healing.
Ẹlùwà Rises
Not Echo.
Not the myth.
Just her.
Face streaked with salt and breath.
She stood in silence.
And for the first time, it didn't hurt.
Ayíbíyè stepped forward.
"Now you are complete.
Now, we may listen to you fully."
A New Role
She would still guide.
Still dance.
Still carry stories.
But now, she would also speak her own.
Because even Echo must find her voice—not just her resonance.
Final Lines
Truth does not spare the truth-teller.
And healing does not come through knowing alone.
It comes through revealing, even when it trembles.
And in the space where Echo once only repeated, now a new voice has joined the river's song.
Not as echo.
But as origin.