They did not speak in the village.
The man asked to walk instead.
Koffi agreed, and together they followed the dirt path that curved between fields where evening insects had begun their soft, steady chorus. The air smelled of dry earth and woodsmoke. Lanterns were being prepared in doorways, not yet lit, waiting for darkness to make them necessary.
The man spoke carefully, as if each word had been weighed before being allowed to exist.
"We've developed technology that can stabilize your form," he said. "Do not replace it. Do not remove it. Support it."
Koffi stopped walking.
The ash around his shoulders tightened slightly, like dust caught in a rising wind.
"You want to cage me," he said quietly.
"No," the man replied immediately. "We want to keep you here."
He tapped his own chest.
"Human. Present. Alive."
Koffi did not move.
The ash held still, but it felt heavier now, more aware of the space between his skin and the world.
"You could eat," the man continued. "Sleep. Feel warmth the way you used to. Be touched. Hug your parents without ash between you."
The words struck deeper than Koffi expected.
He pictured his mother's arms.
His father's hand on his shoulder.
The way they stood close but never quite touching, as if he were made of something that might slip through their fingers.
"You wouldn't fade when the ash thins," the man added. "You wouldn't disappear when the call ends."
Koffi said nothing.
He looked down at his hands, where ash drifted between his fingers like memory that never quite settled.
"There's more," the man said gently. "A salary. Resources. Infrastructure."
They reached a rise where the village could be seen clearly — fields stretching outward, lanterns waiting for night, roofs worn thin by seasons of rain and sun.
"We could bring electricity," the man said. "No more lanterns. No more fire inside homes."
Koffi's breath caught.
He remembered flames.
The wrong kind.
The kind that took instead of warmed.
"Your parents wouldn't farm by hand anymore," the man continued. "Machines. Tools. Time to rest."
Koffi watched his father in his mind — back bent, hands rough, pride never spoken but always carried.
"You could build them a real house," the man said softly. "Strong walls. Safe light. No flames waiting to fall."
The silence stretched.
Not empty.
Heavy.
The sounds of the village drifted up to them — laughter, a goat bleating, a woman calling a child inside before dark.
Life.
Fragile. Beautiful. Hard.
"You don't have to decide now," the man said at last. "But think about this."
He reached into his pocket and removed a small device, smooth and dark, faintly warm as if it carried a heartbeat of its own.
He placed it in Koffi's hand.
"One call," he said. "When you're ready."
No pressure.
No demand.
Just a possibility.
Then he turned and walked away, his figure shrinking along the path until the dusk swallowed him completely.
Koffi remained on the rise.
The device sat heavy in his palm.
Below, his village prepared for the night the way it always had, with flame, with labor, with care passed from hand to hand.
The ash around him shifted uneasily.
And for the first time since the ash had brought him back, temptation burned brighter than fear.