Chapter 1 — Before the Storm
The grass of Ébùrú was not like ordinary grass.
It breathed.
Each blade shimmered a deep, endless green — softer than silk, warmer than sunlight — as though the earth itself was alive beneath it, sighing slowly in and out with the rhythm of something ancient and knowing.
Amara knew this rhythm well. She had been lying here since dawn.
Her eyes were open, fixed on the sky above her — a vast canvas of burnt gold and violet, the colours Ébùrú wore in the hour before the world fully woke. Around her, butterflies moved like living jewels — black and silver wings catching the light, drifting close, then away, then close again.
She hummed softly. A melody without a name. One that had lived in her chest so long she could no longer remember where it came from.
Here, under this tree, she was safe.
Here, she felt only herself.
That was the thing people never understood about Amara. The world assumed her silence was peace. They saw a girl lying in the grass, humming to butterflies, and thought — she has no worries.
They did not know what happened when she touched them.
She had learned young to keep her hands to herself. A brush of fingers against her mother’s wrist once sent three days of exhaustion crashing into her chest. A accidental touch from a market trader flooded her with grief so deep she couldn’t speak for hours. Even joy — someone else’s joy — hitting her all at once felt like drowning in warm water.
So she came here. To the grass. To the butterflies. To the tree that never asked anything of her.
She closed her eyes and hummed a little louder.
For now, at least, she was just Amara.
Not the girl who felt everything.
Just Amara.
