The days that followed felt quieter—like the world was holding its breath.
I found myself waking before the sun, drawn to the silence of dawn. I'd sit with my legs crossed on the concrete outside my room, eyes closed, breath steady. Ayanda taught me to listen—not just to the sounds around me, but to the pulse beneath my skin.
"Breathe in through the nose," she'd say, her voice like river water, "let the breath rise up your spine like smoke. Let it settle at the crown."
It became my daily ritual. Breath. Stillness. Listening. And with each passing day, I began to feel something shift. My thoughts became clearer. My dreams, less chaotic. And in their place, a sense of purpose started to bloom.
The seventh moon was drawing near.
Ayanda helped me pack a small bag: a blanket, a bottle of water, a beaded bracelet from her own journey, and a notebook. "Write what you see," she said, pressing it into my hands. "Even the strange parts. Especially those."
I nodded, fingers tightening around hers.
Before I left, I visited Gogo Nomusa one more time. She was sitting outside her hut, as if she'd known I was coming.
"The mountain won't give you what you want," she warned, "only what you need. Don't resist it."
"I'm ready," I said, though part of me wasn't sure.
She nodded once and handed me a pouch of herbs. "Burn this when you reach the peak. The ancestors will find you by the smoke."
That evening, Ayanda walked with me to the edge of Ezakheni, where the tar road faded into gravel and hills rolled out like sleeping giants. The moon hung high—almost full now.
"You're not just doing this for you," she whispered. "You're carrying the voices of those who came before—and those who will come after."
I leaned in and kissed her, grounding myself in the warmth of her breath, her scent, her faith in me.
Then I turned toward the horizon.
Toward the mountain.
And began to walk.