Zainab sat at the back of the bus, her cheek pressed against the window, watching the Nigerian landscape blur past like a living painting. Her fingers toyed with the third key — the silver ring — now resting on a cord around her neck.
She hadn't spoken much since she left Iyanda Gorge. Her mouth still held the taste of silence from the lake. Not the kind that felt peaceful… the kind that forces you to face yourself.
She wasn't sure what was harder:
Following the map.
Or carrying everything the journey had made her feel.
📍Lagos Again — But Not Home
Two days later, she was back in Lagos, standing in front of the old building on Eko Street.
The place where she first found the obsidian map.Where it all started.
But something had changed.
The building was gone.
In its place stood a fenced-off construction site. Fresh cement. A sign that read: "Future Site of Royal Tower Plaza — Luxury Apartments."
Her heart dropped. "No, no, no…"
She ran to the fence, gripping the rusted bars, peering through like a prisoner. Her mind raced — the final key… the map said… return to the place of mirrors… this was the place…
Wasn't it?
Her fingers itched to burn the whole construction down. To scream. To cry. But all she did was back away slowly and sit on the curb.
Just a girl. In dusty sneakers. With a backpack full of magic and nowhere to go.
🧭 A Map That Feels
She pulled out the map.
"Tell me what to do," she whispered.
The parchment stayed silent. For the first time, it was just paper.
And then… something strange.
A tear slid down her cheek and landed on the map. The drop soaked into the paper, and the ink stirred. Not new paths. Not riddles.
Just one word.
"Look closer."
🏚 A Hidden Reflection
Zainab stood slowly, scanning the area with new eyes.
Mirrors. That was the key.
And then she saw it — across the road, past a line of mechanic shops and buka stalls — an old tailor's shop. The name had faded, but one thing remained clear: a giant, dusty mirror in the display window.
She crossed the road like she was moving through water. Heart thudding. Map pressed to her chest.
Inside, the shop was empty. Cobwebs curled in the corners. The scent of forgotten cloth lingered.
She stood in front of the mirror, staring at herself.
Skin a little darker now from sun. Braids frizzed. Her face looked older. Not aged — awakened.
🔓 Unlocking the Final Door
She reached into her pouch and took out the three keys — the obsidian coin, the crescent moon amulet, and the silver ring.
The mirror shimmered.
Not reflected light — responding light.
A doorway formed in the center of the glass. Not with a creak or flash. Quietly. As if it had been waiting all this time.
She looked at her reflection one last time — her realest self — and stepped through.
🕯 The Vault of Whispers
She found herself in a round chamber, stone walls lined with glowing etchings. All around her, whispers danced like wind.
Not voices of strangers.
Voices of those she loved.
Her mum calling her name.
A friend once lost to sickness.
Her own voice at age eight, saying, "One day I'll find the truth."
At the center stood a pedestal. On it… a book.
It looked simple. Brown leather, no title. But when she touched it, she felt every page hum — like a heartbeat.
The cover peeled open on its own.
"The Map was never meant to lead you to treasure.""It was meant to return you to yourself."
Zainab stood still.
A full minute passed.
And then, for the first time in a long time — she smiled.
Not because she had answers.
But because she knew she was finally asking the right questions.
📘 The End — or The Beginning?
Zainab returned through the mirror with nothing but the book and a lighter heart.
The shopkeeper never saw her.
The world outside hadn't changed.
But she had.
She walked down the road, her backpack slung over one shoulder, thinking not about endings — but about where her story would go next.
Because sometimes, the real magic isn't in the map.
It's in the girl who reads it.