FROM KAIMA’S DIARY
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In a quaint little village nestled among rolling hills, two siblings, Blara and Finn, shared an unbreakable bond. Their parents had passed away when they were young, leaving them to fend for themselves. Blara, the older sister, was practical and resourceful, while Finn, the dreamer, had a penchant for storytelling.
Every evening, they sat by the fireplace, wrapped in thick woollen blankets, their breath visible in the frosty air. Blara mended clothes, her nimble fingers working the needle, while Finn spun tales of mythical creatures and forgotten kingdoms. His stories transported them far beyond the confines of their humble cottage.
One bitter winter, illness struck the village. The snow fell relentlessly, and food grew scarce. Blara ventured into the forest, her footsteps leaving imprints in the snow. She returned with herbs and berries, but her strength waned. Finn, worried for his sister, whispered secrets to the ancient oak tree at the forest’s edge.
The oak listened, its gnarled branches swaying as if in agreement. It revealed a hidden path—a thread of time that led to a realm where magic flowed freely. Finn followed the path, guided by Blara’s fading heartbeat. There, he encountered the Weaver, an ethereal being who spun destinies like silk.
“Your sister’s thread is fraying,” the Weaver said, her eyes like galaxies. “To save her, you must sacrifice your most cherished memory.”
Finn hesitated. Memories flooded his mind—their parents’ laughter, the taste of warm bread, Blara’s comforting presence. But he chose the memory of their first snowball fight, the snowflakes dancing around them. With tears in his eyes, he handed it to the Weaver.
The Weaver wove the memory into Blara’s thread, and her pulse steadied. But Finn forgot the snowball fight—the laughter, the joy. It vanished like morning mist. Blara recovered, but Finn felt a hollow ache.
Years passed. Blara married a kind blacksmith, and Finn continued to tell stories. Yet, he yearned for the forgotten memory. One day, he stumbled upon an old journal—their mother’s. In it, she’d written about that snowball fight, capturing every detail.
Finn retraced the path to the Weaver. “I want my memory back,” he pleaded. The Weaver smiled. “You’ve grown wise, Finn. Memories are threads that bind us. You can reclaim it, but it won’t be the same.”
Finn agreed. As the Weaver rewove the memory, he felt the snowflakes on his skin, and heard Blara’s laughter. But it was bittersweet—the joy tinged with loss.
Blara found him by the oak tree, tears in her eyes. “You’re my cherished memory,” she whispered.
And so, the siblings held hands, their threads intertwined—past, present, and future. The oak watched, its leaves rustling in approval. Blara’s laughter echoed through the forest, and Finn knew—he’d made the right choice.
From this story, we are reminded that every step we take matters. Every choice we make. Every dream we chase. Every obstacle we overcome—weaves the fabric of our existence and with our threads of love and sacrifice intertwined, the road is shorter and the vistas are more visible.
Let us embrace and accept the journey and the fate life presents. When we reached the summit, we would look back with a smile, knowing that every stumble, every tear, every sunrise—was all part of our extraordinary adventure.
✍️ Chikaima Zita Unachukwu
