The Price of Shadows

They say in the highlands of East Africa, there's a village where children are

born without shadows. I didn't believe it until I met Amara, a trader who passed through that cursed

place. She arrived at dusk, when the baobabs cast long fingers across the red earth.

The children played in the clearing, laughing, spinning in circles. But something was

wrong. The ground beneath them remained untouched by darkness. No shadows followed

their movements. The elders warned her not to ask questions. But Amara noticed something else.

Every home had a clay pot sealed with wax, hidden in the darkest corner.

Inside each one, something moved. Something that breathed. On her last night, a child approached