Decades passed. Efe's hair turned white as cowries, but his hands remained steady. The guild flourished under his guidance, its apprentices sworn to carve only what healed. The iroko tree in the courtyard grew tall, its leaves whispering secrets to the wind.
One morning a girl came to the workshop, eyes bright as river stones. She carried a small mask of her own making—plain wood, smooth as forgiveness. "I want to learn," she said. Efe studied her work and saw the future in its curves.
He took her to the tree and told her the story—of Odion, Osaro, the seven masks, and the one that ended them. When he finished, she touched the bark. "What happens when I'm old?" she asked. Efe smiled. "You plant a seed."
That night Efe dreamed of the grove reborn, masks growing like fruit but filled with light. He woke to find the girl carving beneath the iroko, her knife singing. The sacred blade gleamed in her small hands, and for the first time in years, Efe felt fear—not of madness, but of hope.
He left her to her work and walked to the river where Odion had once taught him to listen to wood. The water carried his reflection, lined but unafraid. "We did it, Master," he whispered. The river answered with the laughter of children.
Benin endured, its legacy no longer in masks but in the faces that wore none. And somewhere, a new seed waited to be planted, carrying the story forward on roots deeper than any curse.