The village of Korobanti never slept, or at least, it never slept in the way Ayuba knew. The so-called market was no place for trade or commerce. It was a gathering of lost souls and restless spirits, all trapped in a dance of shadows beneath a heavy sky.
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Ayuba followed Aissatou through narrow alleys where the fog clung thickest. Around them, twisted stalls made from bone and tattered fabric housed grotesque wares masks with hollow eyes, charms woven from human hair, jars filled with unidentifiable liquids that bubbled and hissed.
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“Each item has a price,” Aissatou whispered, her voice barely audible. “And none are paid with money.”
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A shadow flickered nearby. Ayuba spun, but there was nothing only the faint echo of laughter, dark and hollow.
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“Who are the others?” Ayuba asked, nodding toward figures drifting like lost ghosts through the market.
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“Souls who traded their memories for false hope,” Aissatou said. “Or those who bargained with Papa Djinn himself.”
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Ayuba felt a cold hand brush his arm, and he stumbled. Turning, he faced a woman with eyes like molten gold and a smile that didn’t reach her cold face.
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“Looking for answers?” she asked, voice smooth as silk.
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“I want to leave,” Ayuba said, gripping his jacket tighter.
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She laughed, a sound like breaking glass. “Ah, the eternal wish. But Korobanti has already marked you.”
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The woman’s name was Delphine, and as Ayuba soon learned, she was more than just a lost soul. She was a seeker of truths a journalist whose documentary had become a curse, tying her to the village’s dark heart.
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Night fell, and the market transformed. Shadows grew long and sharp; whispers turned to wails. Ayuba realized the market was a living entity, hungry and watchful.
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“Beware the bargains you make,” Aissatou warned. “Korobanti never forgets. And the price is always blood.”
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and then Add to home screen.