The paper was wrong.
Not old. Not torn. Not yellowed with time. It was wrong in the way a scream sounds in a dream — familiar, but twisted. Elijah held it with trembling fingers, watching the ink pulse like veins. It wasn't a map. It was a wound.
He hadn't drawn a map in five years. Not since the funeral. Not since the earth swallowed his family whole.
Outside, Lagos was silent. Not quiet — silent. No birds. No engines. No children. Just the hum of a world holding its breath. The Silence had changed everything. One morning, half the world woke up to find their cities erased. Not bombed. Not burned. Just… gone. As if the land had decided it was done being known.
They called it "No Man's Land." A place where memory failed, compasses spun, and time bent like heat over asphalt. No one who entered came back the same. Some didn't come back at all.
Elijah never planned to go in. He was done with maps. Done with loss. But then the woman came.
She wore a coat made of stitched-together photographs. Her eyes were the color of ash. She didn't knock. She just appeared in his apartment, holding the map like a newborn.
"You're the last cartographer," she said. Her voice was like dust. "We need you to go where no one else will."
Elijah laughed. It sounded like breaking glass.
"I'm not going anywhere," he said. "I buried my family because of that place."
The woman didn't blink. "And they're still there."
Elijah froze.
"What do you mean?"
She unfolded the map. It bled.
Not ink. Not paint. Something darker. Something alive.
"This map leads to the last No Man's Land," she said. "It's in the heart of Nigeria. Near the ruins of Obudu. We believe your wife and son left something behind."
Elijah stared at the pulsing lines. They moved like grief.
"What's in the No Man's Land?" he whispered.
The woman smiled. "Everything you've lost."
That night, Elijah packed nothing but pencils, a compass, and the map that bled.
He didn't say goodbye. There was no one left to say it to.
---
The train to Cross River was empty.
Not abandoned — empty. No conductor. No passengers. Just Elijah and the hum of old steel. The windows showed landscapes that didn't match the tracks. Forests where cities should be. Rivers that flowed uphill. He stopped looking.
The map sat on his lap, pulsing faintly. Every time he blinked, the lines shifted. Roads disappeared. Mountains moved. It was like trying to hold a dream in your hands.
He remembered the last time he held his son.
A fever had taken him. Fast. Violent. The doctors said it wasn't viral. Said it was "environmental." Said the land was changing. Said nothing at all.
His wife, Amara, had screamed at the sky. Begged it to give her son back. The sky didn't listen.
Now Elijah was chasing ghosts.
---
At the edge of Obudu, the train stopped.
No station. No platform. Just jungle.
The woman was waiting.
"You're late," she said.
"There was no time," Elijah replied.
She handed him a small device. It looked like a compass, but the needle spun in slow circles.
"It won't help you," she said. "But it might comfort you."
Elijah tucked it into his coat.
"Where do I start?"
She pointed to the trees.
"Follow the silence."
---
The jungle was loud.
Birds screamed. Insects buzzed. Leaves whispered secrets.
But then, suddenly, it wasn't.
Elijah stepped into a clearing, and the world went mute.
No wind. No sound. Just the thrum of his own heartbeat.
The map pulsed.
He unfolded it. The lines had changed again. Now they formed a spiral, leading deeper into the forest.
He walked.
---
Hours passed. Or days. Time didn't work here.
Elijah stopped counting.
He found a village. Or what was left of one. Huts made of bone. Fires that burned without smoke. Children's toys scattered in perfect circles.
He didn't touch anything.
The map led him to a well.
It was deep. Too deep. He dropped a stone. Never heard it land.
Beside the well was a photograph.
His wife. Holding their son.
But the background was wrong. It showed the jungle. This jungle.
He hadn't taken this photo.
He picked it up. It was warm.
---
Night fell without warning.
The stars were wrong. Constellations he didn't recognize. A moon that blinked.
Elijah built a fire. It refused to burn.
He slept without dreaming.
When he woke, the map was gone.
In its place was a trail of blood.
He followed it.
---
The trail led to a tree.
It was massive. Ancient. Its bark was covered in names.
He found his own.
"Elijah Adeyemi."
Below it, a date: "October 16, 2025."
Today.
He touched the name. The tree shuddered.
A voice whispered from the roots.
"Why did you leave us?"
Elijah fell to his knees.
"I didn't," he said. "You were taken."
The tree wept sap. It smelled like his son's shampoo.
He screamed.
The jungle listened.
---
The woman returned.
"You found the tree," she said.
"What is this place?" Elijah asked.
She sat beside him.
"It's memory," she said. "Raw. Unfiltered. The land remembers everything. Every scream. Every tear. Every lie."
Elijah looked at the tree.
"Can I bring them back?"
She shook her head.
"No. But you can find what they left behind."
She handed him a new map.
It was blank.
"You must draw it yourself," she said.
Elijah took the pencil.
And began to remember.
---
Elijah stared at the blank map in his hands.
It was smooth, cold, and impossibly white. Not paper. Not parchment. Something else. Something that resisted being known.
He sat beneath the tree that remembered his name, pencil poised, heart pounding. The woman had vanished again, leaving only the echo of her words: "You must draw it yourself."
But how do you draw a place that erases itself?
He closed his eyes.
And remembered.
---
The first memory was of Amara's laughter.
It came like a breeze through the leaves — soft, sudden, impossible. He saw her standing in their old kitchen, flour on her cheeks, humming a song he never learned the name of. Their son, Tunde, was dancing in circles, pretending to be a tornado.
Elijah drew a spiral.
The pencil moved on its own, carving a path into the blankness. The spiral widened, then narrowed, then split into two jagged lines. A fork in the road. A choice.
He opened his eyes.
The map had changed.
Now it showed a trail leading east — toward a ridge of broken stone.
Elijah stood.
And walked.
---
The ridge was real.
Sharp, black rocks jutted from the earth like teeth. The air smelled of rust and rain. Elijah climbed slowly, each step a prayer. At the top, he found a door.
Not a cave. Not a building. A door.
Wooden. Painted red. Standing alone.
He touched the handle.
It was warm.
He opened it.
---
Inside was a room.
His room.
From childhood.
The posters on the wall. The cracked window. The old desk where he first learned to draw maps. It was perfect. Too perfect.
He stepped inside.
The door slammed shut.
The walls began to whisper.
"Elijah…"
"Elijah…"
"Elijah…"
He turned in circles, heart racing.
The whispers grew louder.
"Elijah Adeyemi…"
"You left us…"
"You forgot…"
"No Man's Land remembers…"
He screamed.
The room collapsed.
---
He woke in the jungle.
Covered in ash.
The map was beside him, now marked with a red X.
He didn't remember drawing it.
The X pulsed.
He touched it.
And the world shifted.
---
Suddenly, he was standing in a field of mirrors.
Each one reflected a different version of himself.
One was smiling. One was crying. One was bleeding. One was screaming.
He walked past them, refusing to look.
But one mirror called to him.
It showed Amara.
Holding Tunde.
They were waving.
He reached out.
The glass shattered.
And behind it was a tunnel.
---
The tunnel was narrow and wet.
The walls pulsed like veins.
He walked for hours. Or minutes. Or years.
Time didn't work here.
At the end of the tunnel was a box.
Wooden. Carved with symbols.
He opened it.
Inside was a single item:
A drawing.
Made in crayon.
It showed a family. Three stick figures. Smiling.
On the back, in a child's handwriting:
"Come home, Daddy."
Elijah collapsed.
He wept.
The jungle wept with him.
---
The woman returned.
"You found it," she said.
He held the drawing like a lifeline.
"Why did he leave this here?"
She knelt beside him.
"Because he believed you'd come."
Elijah looked at the map.
It was full now.
Lines. Symbols. Memories.
But one part remained blank.
The center.
"What's there?" he asked.
She smiled.
"Your truth."
---
Elijah stood.
He was ready.
The jungle opened.
And the map bled again.
---
Elijah stood at the edge of the clearing, the blank map now marked with dozens of symbols — spirals, Xs, jagged lines, and one glowing circle at the center. The woman had vanished again, but her voice lingered in his memory like smoke.
"Your truth is at the center."
He stared at the glowing circle. It pulsed like a heartbeat. Like his son's heartbeat, the last time he held him. Like Amara's breath, the moment she stopped screaming and started praying.
He stepped forward.
The jungle shifted.
---
The trees bent away from him, revealing a narrow path lined with bones. Not human. Not animal. Something in between. The air grew thick, heavy with the scent of memory — old perfume, burnt toast, wet soil, and something metallic.
Elijah walked slowly, each step a question.
Why did I survive?
Why did they die?
Why does the land remember what I want to forget?
The path ended at a lake.
It was perfectly still.
The surface reflected nothing.
He knelt beside it, dipped his fingers in.
The water was warm.
It whispered.
"Elijah…"
"Elijah…"
"Elijah…"
He looked up.
Across the lake stood a figure.
Small.
Familiar.
Tunde.
---
Elijah's breath caught.
His son was standing barefoot on the opposite shore, holding a crayon in one hand and a torn piece of paper in the other. His eyes were wide, unblinking, filled with something ancient.
"Daddy," he said.
Elijah stumbled forward, into the lake.
The water didn't resist.
It welcomed him.
Each step felt like walking through memory — birthdays, bedtime stories, scraped knees, whispered promises.
He reached the center.
Tunde was gone.
In his place was a mirror.
Elijah looked into it.
He saw himself.
But not the man he was.
The man he had become.
Tired. Hollow. Haunted.
Behind him, shadows moved.
He turned.
The jungle was watching.
---
The mirror cracked.
A voice echoed from within.
"You cannot map what you refuse to feel."
Elijah fell to his knees.
"I feel everything," he whispered.
The voice laughed.
"No. You remember. But you do not feel."
The lake began to boil.
The bones along the path rattled.
The map in his coat burned.
He pulled it out.
It was blank again.
He screamed.
The jungle screamed back.
---
Then — silence.
Pure.
Total.
A silence so deep it erased thought.
Elijah floated.
Not in water.
In memory.
He saw Amara's face.
Not the day she died.
The day they met.
She was laughing at his terrible joke.
He saw Tunde's first steps.
Not the hospital bed.
The living room carpet.
He saw himself.
Not broken.
Whole.
The map reappeared.
One line.
One word.
Home.
---
He opened his eyes.
The lake was gone.
The jungle was quiet.
The woman stood beside him.
"You're ready," she said.
Elijah looked at the map.
It was complete.
But it didn't show roads.
It showed memories.
It showed grief.
It showed love.
It showed him.
He folded it carefully.
"What happens now?" he asked.
She smiled.
"You go to the center."
"And then?"
She touched his shoulder.
"You decide what kind of man walks out."
---
heart, the map now glowing faintly in his hands. It was no longer just a guide — it was a mirror. Every line etched into it was a memory, every curve a scar. The center pulsed with a soft, golden light, and he knew: this was the place the woman had spoken of. The place where truth lived.
He stepped forward.
The air changed.
It grew heavier, like grief pressing against his skin. The trees leaned inward, their branches forming a tunnel of bone and bark. The ground beneath him felt soft, almost breathing. He walked slowly, each step a surrender.
Then he saw it.
A house.
Not ruined. Not ancient. New.
It looked exactly like the home he'd shared with Amara and Tunde — down to the chipped paint on the porch and the crooked mailbox. But it couldn't be. That house had burned. He'd seen the flames. He'd scattered the ashes.
He approached cautiously.
The door was ajar.
Inside, the lights were on.
He stepped through.
---
The living room was warm.
The scent of stew hung in the air. A toy truck lay on the floor. The television played static. Elijah's heart pounded.
"Hello?" he called.
No answer.
He moved through the house, room by room. Each one was perfect. Preserved. Impossible.
In the kitchen, a pot simmered on the stove.
In the bathroom, steam fogged the mirror.
In the bedroom, the bed was made — with Amara's favorite quilt.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, trembling.
Then he heard it.
Footsteps.
Soft. Familiar.
He turned.
Tunde stood in the doorway.
"Daddy," he said.
Elijah couldn't breathe.
"You're not real," he whispered.
Tunde smiled.
"Neither is this place."
Elijah stood, tears streaming down his face.
"I miss you."
"I know."
"I'm sorry."
"I know."
Tunde held out his hand.
Elijah took it.
The room dissolved.
---
They were standing in a field.
The sky was black.
The stars were falling.
Tunde pointed to the horizon.
"There's more," he said.
Elijah looked down at the map.
It was complete.
But the center — the glowing circle — had opened.
Inside was a single word:
Remember.
He looked up.
Tunde was gone.
The woman stood in his place.
"You've seen the truth," she said.
Elijah nodded.
"What now?"
She handed him a pen.
"You draw the future."
---