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Season 2, Episode 2 – Tayo The Ritualist - “The Warden’s Eye”

The eye was everywhere now. Chalked on alleyways. Stamped on missing person posters. Hidden inside shop logos. Tayo felt it tracking him, like the city itself had grown new pupils. One night, even the moon looked like it was watching him.

Kemi called it “psychological conditioning.” The Red Watch wanted fear. Wanted the marked to come out of hiding. But Dayo had a simpler explanation. “The Warden sees through her symbols,” he whispered. “She’s not just watching. She’s waiting.”

The warning on the VHS tapes had been real. Three marked individuals had already disappeared—two young women and a street preacher known for speaking in tongues. Their names now lived only in The Archive. Kemi’s voice was hoarse from crying when she added the files.

Tayo had dreams again. Not memories—visions. In one, he stood in a vast, ash-covered field. Statues of headless children surrounded him. A voice in the wind whispered, “If one does not return, all will.”

The next morning, they tracked the encoded location from the tapes to an old colonial mansion in the hills. Long abandoned, supposedly cursed. People called it “Ile Oku”—House of the Dead.

It was locked behind gates and time, but Kemi’s fingers made quick work of the keypad. Inside, the air was heavy, thick with rot and silence. They found ritual markings scorched into the wood floor, and fresh footprints in the dust.

Not all the Red Watch wore robes. Some wore uniforms now—embedded in law enforcement, politics, even media. That night, an anonymous tip revealed that a government health official was scheduled to visit the mansion. He never left.

Dayo watched the shadows. He drew sketches of what he saw: a woman with no face, eyes on her palms, ash dripping from her fingertips. “That’s her,” he said one evening. “That’s the Warden.”

Then, it happened. A broadcast hijack. Every screen in the city—from street ads to phones—cut to static, then to her.

The Warden’s voice came slow, smooth, like someone whispering to you in a dream you can’t wake from. “The Circle was chaos. I am the cure. The rot ends with you. Come willingly, and you may be spared.”

Her face was obscured by flickering ash, but the voice was unforgettable. Tayo and Kemi stood frozen as her final words echoed: “The blood of the marked is the key to the city's rebirth.”

They knew then—there was no hiding anymore. War had begun. And like all wars, it would cost something sacred.

Kemi began building devices—ash scanners, symbol blockers, even wearable memory seals. “If she attacks through memory, we’ll carry armor made of our own stories,” she explained, handing Tayo a charm that pulsed with soft light.

The Archive grew into more than a database. It became a resistance. Survivors, hackers, ex-cultists, and street prophets came to them. They called it The Pulse—a heartbeat under the city, made of those who refused to vanish.

Dayo, despite his age, became their oracle. “She’s coming through dreams now,” he said, eyes wide and distant. “She speaks to the lonely ones, the hurting. Tells them they’re chosen. And they believe her.”

That week, six new disappearances. One survivor left behind a message scratched into a train wall: “She showed me peace, then took my soul.”

Tayo began writing again. Not in the Black Book—it was gone—but in a new journal. He recorded names, faces, stories. His hand trembled when he wrote, but the ink always dried clean. He called it The Fire Ledger.

They were building something—bit by bit, story by story. And deep down, Tayo believed that memory, not magic, would be their weapon. Because the Warden wanted to erase. But they? They would remember.

At the close of the episode, they stood once more on the rooftop where it all began. The city below burned in neon and noise, unaware of the battle beneath its skin.

Tayo looked at Kemi and said, “She’s not the Circle. She’s worse. But we’ve faced worse before.” Kemi smiled, weary but alive. “Then let’s remind her who we are.”

.

.

.

To Be Continued .......!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Lost In A Love Story

In a quiet bookstore on a rainy afternoon, Dab sat at a small wooden table near the window, a steaming cup of black coffee beside him. His fingers hovered over the keys of his laptop, but the screen remained blank.

He sighed, running a hand through his slightly messy dark hair. "Come on, words… where are you?" he muttered under his breath.

After writing five bestsellers, Dab was used to the process—late nights, endless rewrites, and coffee-fueled inspiration. But this time, nothing came. His latest novel was due in a few months, and for the first time in his career, he had writer’s block.

"Maybe I’ve finally run out of stories," he murmured.

"You? Out of stories? I find that hard to believe."

Dab looked up, startled. A woman stood across from him, holding a book in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. She had deep brown eyes that sparkled with curiosity and a warm, knowing smile.

He blinked. "Excuse me?"

She nodded toward his blank screen. "I’m guessing you’re a writer."

"Good guess," he said, shutting his laptop halfway. "I’m Dab."

"Like the famous author?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"The one and only," he said with a small, tired smile.

She pulled out the chair across from him and sat down without waiting for permission. "I’m Thess. Big fan of your books."

"Really?" He tilted his head. "Which one’s your favorite?"

Thess grinned and held up the book she had been carrying. It was his first novel, A Love Worth Writing.

Dab chuckled. "You must like romance."

"I like stories that make me feel something," she said. "Your books do that."

"That’s a huge compliment," he admitted.

She sipped her coffee. "So why do you look like a man who’s lost his words?"

Dab sighed, leaning back. "Because I have. Every time I try to write, nothing comes out. It’s frustrating."

Thess tapped her fingers on the table, thinking. Then, she leaned forward, excitement lighting up her face. "Maybe you just need a little adventure."

"Adventure?"

"Yes! Something new. Something exciting." She smiled. "Come on, let’s do something unexpected."

Dab raised an eyebrow. "I don’t even know you."

"That makes it even better." Thess winked.

Something about her energy was contagious. Against his better judgment, he nodded. "Alright, Thess. Surprise me."

And just like that, his life changed forever.

Their first adventure was simple—choosing random food from a restaurant menu without looking.

Dab ended up with the spiciest dish he had ever eaten. He coughed, his face turning red.

Thess laughed, handing him her drink. "Here, before you die."

"Not the adventure I had in mind," he wheezed, but he was laughing too.

From then on, they met every day. Thess introduced him to spontaneous adventures—crashing a salsa dance class, taking a painting workshop, even sneaking into a movie theater’s last showing just for the fun of it.

Dab found himself writing again, but not just his novel. He wrote about her.

He wrote about a woman who made life brighter, who turned ordinary days into something worth remembering. Thess had become his muse, and the more time they spent together, the more he realized—he was falling for her.

One evening, as they watched the city skyline from a rooftop café, Dab turned to her. "Thess, do you believe in love?"

She stirred her tea, thinking. "I believe in love stories. But real life? Love is… tricky."

Dab nodded. "It is."

She looked at him, tilting her head. "Why? Are you writing about love again?"

He hesitated. "Yes. And no."

She laughed. "That’s confusing."

"It’s just…" He rubbed the back of his neck. "I didn’t expect to find inspiration in real life. But now, it’s everywhere."

Thess smiled, but she looked away, as if deep in thought.

Dab wanted to ask what she was thinking, but something in her eyes made him hold back.

Dab finished his book.

It was his best work yet—a story about a writer who found love where he least expected it.

And he knew exactly who to dedicate it to:

"To the woman who taught me that life is the best story of all."

Excited, he rushed to the bookstore where they always met, ready to show Thess.

But she wasn’t there.

He waited. Called her phone. No answer.

A strange feeling settled in his chest.

The bookstore owner noticed him pacing and finally spoke. “Dab, are you okay?”

“I’m waiting for someone,” he said.

The owner frowned. “Who?”

Dab blinked. “Thess. She always meets me here.”

The owner’s expression softened. “Dab… I’ve never seen you with anyone.”

His heart pounded. “That’s not possible. We sit right there,” he pointed to the table by the window.

The owner shook his head. “You always sit alone.”

Dab felt the world tilt. “No… that can’t be right.”

He ran home and searched his phone for their messages. There were none.

No photos. No calls. Nothing.

His hands shook as he flipped through his notebook, expecting to see her name in his notes. But the pages were empty.

It hit him like a wave—Thess wasn’t real.

For months, he had been talking, laughing, and falling in love… with someone his mind had created.

A figment of his loneliness.

He dropped his head into his hands.

All those moments—the dancing, the coffee shop conversations, the adventures—they had never happened.

The next morning, Dab walked down the familiar street, feeling numb. He ended up at a coffee and flower shop—a place he always visited to buy drinks. He had never paid attention to anything except his order.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the air as he stood at the counter, lost in thought.

Then, a voice called out—

“Mr. Dab, your order is ready.”

His heart jumped.

He turned sharply. That voice—it was the same voice he had imagined for Thess.

Slowly, he approached the counter.

A young woman stood there, holding out his cup with a gentle smile. She had warm brown eyes and a soft, knowing expression.

“Good morning, Mr. Dab,” she said.

His throat went dry. “You… know me?”

She chuckled. “Of course. You come here almost every day.”

He stared at her. “And you’ve always been the one serving me?”

She nodded. “Most of the time, yes.”

Dab swallowed hard. He had never noticed her before.

“What’s your name?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer.

“Issa,” she said with a smile.

Issa.

Not Thess.

But somehow, the warmth in her voice, the kindness in her eyes… it felt real.

For the first time in months, Dab smiled back.

Maybe his true story was just beginning.

====================

The Lesson of the Story :

The story teaches that sometimes, we get lost in our own minds when we feel lonely. We create dreams to fill the emptiness in our hearts. But no matter how beautiful those dreams are, they are not real. Life is happening around us, and we must open our eyes to see it. The people we ignore today might be the ones meant for us. Love is not just in our imagination—it is in the small, real moments we often overlook. When we finally pay attention, we may find something even more beautiful than what we imagined. True love is not just written in stories; it is found in the world around us, waiting to be noticed.

The Woman in the Blue Dress

In a quiet town filled with old buildings and forgotten stories, there lived a historian named Emil. He spent his days inside dusty libraries and his nights in his small study, surrounded by history books and old letters. Emil loved history more than anything—until he met her.

One evening, Emil was researching an old mansion on the edge of town. The mansion, abandoned for over a hundred years, belonged to a woman named Isabella Montgomery, who had mysteriously disappeared in the 1800s. No one knew what happened to her, and Emil was determined to find out.

As he stepped into the grand but decaying mansion, the wooden floor creaked under his weight. Moonlight shone through the broken windows, casting long shadows on the walls. He walked toward the fireplace, where he found an old portrait covered in dust. He gently wiped it with his sleeve.

The woman in the painting had deep brown eyes and dark curls that framed her delicate face. She wore a light blue dress, and her expression was calm yet sad. Emil felt his heart skip a beat.

“You’re staring,” a soft voice said behind him.

Emil turned quickly. His breath caught in his throat.

Standing before him was Isabella. She looked just like her portrait, except she was slightly transparent. Her presence filled the room with a strange warmth.

“You… you’re a ghost,” Emil stammered.

Isabella smiled. “I suppose I am.”

Emil took a step closer. “How is this possible?”

“I don’t know,” Isabella said. “All I know is that I have been here for a long time, watching the world change, unable to leave.”

Emil’s curiosity burned inside him. “What happened to you? Why did you disappear?”

Isabella looked away. “I don’t remember everything. Just pieces. But I know that I was waiting for someone.”

“Who?” Emil asked.

She turned to him, her eyes searching his. “I think… you.”

A shiver ran down Emil’s spine, but it wasn’t fear—it was something else, something he couldn’t explain. He spent hours talking to Isabella that night. She told him about her life in the 1800s, about the garden she used to love, and the books she used to read. Emil told her about the present world, the inventions, the changes, the wonders of history that she had missed.

Night after night, Emil returned to the mansion. He brought books to read to Isabella, and she told him stories from the past. They laughed together, shared secrets, and grew closer with each passing night.

One evening, as they sat by the fireplace, Isabella reached out to touch Emil’s hand. He felt only the faintest warmth, like a whisper of wind, but his heart pounded.

“Emil,” she said softly. “Do you believe that love can exist beyond time?”

He looked into her deep brown eyes. “I didn’t… until I met you.”

Isabella smiled, but there was sadness in her eyes. “I wish I could stay with you forever.”

“There has to be a way,” Emil said desperately. “There has to be something I can do.”

Isabella hesitated. “There is a legend,” she whispered. “It says that if a ghost finds true love, they can become human again. But only if the person they love is willing to make a great sacrifice.”

Emil grabbed her hands. “Tell me. I’ll do anything.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know what the sacrifice is. No one does. And if you fail, I will disappear forever.”

Emil’s heart ached. He couldn’t imagine a world without Isabella now. “I’ll find a way,” he promised.

Days turned into weeks. Emil searched every book, every legend, but found nothing. He visited historians, fortune tellers, and even spiritualists, but no one had an answer. The thought of losing Isabella weighed on him heavily.

One afternoon, as Emil sat by the mansion’s window, watching the autumn leaves fall, Isabella appeared beside him. “You look tired,” she said gently.

“I can’t stop,” he admitted. “I have to find a way.”

Isabella brushed a ghostly hand against his cheek. “What if we just enjoy the time we have left?”

Emil stared at her, his heart twisting. “But I want forever with you.”

They spent the evening walking through the old garden, which had become overgrown with wildflowers. Isabella told him about the times she had walked there in her youth, about the love letters she used to write but never sent. She hummed a song from her childhood, and Emil closed his eyes, memorizing every note.

Then, one evening, something changed. As Emil arrived at the mansion, Isabella was standing in the doorway. She looked different—brighter, more solid. Her eyes were filled with both hope and sorrow.

“It’s time,” she whispered.

“What do you mean?” Emil asked.

“I remember now,” she said, stepping closer. “The sacrifice… it’s your memories of me.”

Emil’s breath caught. “What?”

“If you want me to stay, you must forget me,” she said, tears forming in her eyes. “If you let go of our love, I will become human again. But you will never remember that we loved each other.”

Emil’s heart shattered. He had fought so hard for her. How could he lose her now?

Isabella cupped his face. “I love you, Emil. And I will love you, even if you forget me.”

Tears streamed down Emil’s face. He had a choice—keep his memories and lose her forever or forget and let her live.

With a trembling heart, he whispered, “I love you too.”

A soft glow surrounded Isabella, and Emil felt a strange warmth spread through his body. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and everything went dark.

When Emil woke up, he was lying on the floor of the old mansion. Sunlight streamed through the windows. He sat up, confused. His head ached, and his heart felt… empty.

As he stumbled outside, he saw a woman standing in the garden. She wore a light blue dress, and when she turned, her deep brown eyes met his.

“Hello,” she said, smiling warmly. “I’m Bettina.”

Emil stared at her, something flickering in his heart. “I’m Emil,” he said, though his voice was uncertain.

Isabella’s smile softened. “It’s nice to meet you, Emil.”

He didn’t know why, but looking at her, he felt something deep inside him—like a story he had once known but had long forgotten. And in that moment, he knew that their love, even beyond time, had found a way.

As they stood in the garden, Bettina knelt down and picked a few wildflowers. “I live a few blocks from here,” she said softly. “I just came to the garden to gather some flowers.”

Emil watched her, his heart beating faster. He didn’t know why, but he suddenly wished to see her again, to talk to her, to know her.

Maybe, just maybe, their love story wasn’t over yet.