The shadows stretched long and thin across the backyard as they swapped stories, their words tumbling into the quiet hum of evening. Aunt Oby spun tales like a magician pulling memories from her sleeve—two teenage girls in St. Leo, sneaking out to festivals that lasted until the stars blurred, cramming for exams under the old mango tree that used to stand out front, and cooking experiments that were less culinary triumphs and more small-scale disasters. Their laughter rang out, bright and untamed, mingling with the faint, almost melancholic chime of the garden bells.

But then Nze asked the question that had haunted him for years. "Aunt Oby," he began, his voice careful, measured. "Who is my father?"

Nze's voice broke slightly, surprising even himself. He had rehearsed this question for years, yet now, in the stillness of the garden, it hung in the air like a challenge.

The warmth in Aunt Oby's face flickered, replaced by a storm of emotions—concern, guilt, and the faintest glimmer of hesitation, as if she was deciding whether to shield him or let the truth cut clean.

"That's..." she began, her voice faltering. She took a breath, recalibrated. "Nobody knows, Nze. Not even your mother knew." Her eyes locked onto his, steady and unflinching, as if willing him to see the truth she was still piecing together herself. "And not because Rebecca was reckless—she wasn't. That night..." She paused, shaking her head. "Even by St. Leo's standards, it was... strange."

"What do you mean?" Nze leaned forward.

"It was a party," Aunt Oby said, her voice quieter now, like the memory had turned the volume down on everything else. "At the old Yellow House by the river—you know the one? Harvest celebration. It started off normal enough—music, dancing, the kind of night that felt endless in the best way. But after that..." She trailed off, her fingers tracing invisible shapes on the tablecloth, like the patterns might hold answers. "Your mother remembered nothing. Not leaving the party, not coming home—nothing until she woke up in her bed the next morning. And I—" Her voice caught for a second. "I was with her most of the night, but even my memories of those hours are... blurry. Like trying to hold onto a dream after it's already slipping away."

A breeze stirred the jasmine flowers, carrying their sweet scent across the table. Somewhere in the garden, a bird called once and fell silent.

"We tried to make sense of it in the weeks that followed," Aunt Oby said, her voice softer now, like she was speaking more to herself than to him. "But in St. Leo..." She gave a small shrug, the kind that wasn't defeat but something close. "Some mysteries don't like being solved."

The weight of her words settled between them, thick and impossible to ignore, until Nze's phone shattered the quiet with its insistent ring. He glanced at the screen—a student from one of his classes, asking about meeting at the mall for a group project. Reality, as always, had the worst timing.

"I should go," he said, standing. The late afternoon sun caught the silver rings in Oby's hair as she rose to hug him goodbye.

"Be careful," Iza called after him as he headed toward the garden maze. "Do you know how to get to where you're going?"

"Yes," he called back, already navigating the flower-lined paths. "I know the way."

They watched him disappear around a bend in the maze, Aunt Oby's expression thoughtful as she fingered one of the cowrie shells in her hair.

Aunt Oby watched Iza's gaze linger on the path where Nze had disappeared, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips. She started gathering the empty glasses, slow and deliberate, like she had all the time in the world.

"So," she said, her voice casually innocent in a way that wasn't casual or innocent at all, "how long?"

"How long what?" Iza turned so fast she nearly knocked over the chin-chin plate.

"Oh, don't play dumb with me, child. I've known you since you couldn't tell your left shoe from your right. I know that look."

"There's no look," Iza said quickly, busying herself with rearranging the already perfectly arranged chin-chin. "We're just friends."

"Mhmm," Oby hummed, her skepticism loud enough to fill the garden. "The same way the moon is just friends with the tide?" She set the glasses down and leaned back, watching her niece with quiet amusement. "I saw how you watched him in the garden. Like you were afraid he might wander off and disappear forever."

"Because the maze is tricky," Iza shot back, her voice sharper than she meant. "Anyone could get lost."

"And the way you lean in every time he talks? The way your fingers mess with your bracelet when he looks at you?"

"Aunt Oby!" Iza's cheeks flared so red they practically glowed. "It's not... we're not..."

Oby laughed, a warm, knowing sound. "You forget I was young once, too. Your mother was the same with your father—eyes full of denial, all 'just friends' until one day—"

"It doesn't matter," Iza interrupted, her voice quieter now, like she didn't quite believe her own words. "Nothing can happen."

"Because of the mark?" Oby's teasing stopped cold, her smile fading.

Iza froze, her head snapping up. "What mark?"

Oby placed her glass back on the table, all traces of humor gone. "You do see it, don't you? The mark he's carrying?"

"What do you mean? By who?" Iza's voice wavered as her heart picked up speed. "I've been watching him—closely. I haven't seen anything—"

"A leopard," Aunt Oby said, her voice quiet, like the words themselves carried weight. "And not just any mark. It's an imprint."

The color drained from Iza's face as her breath caught. The soft hum of the evening—the crickets, the rustle of leaves, the faint chime of the wind—seemed to dissolve into the background, leaving only the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears. Every supernatural in St. Leo knew what an imprint meant. And what it cost.

"No," Iza whispered, her voice trembling as her mind raced to deny it. She clutched the edge of the table, her knuckles whitening. "That's impossible. I've been with him—I would've noticed. When?"

"It's fresh," Oby said, her gaze steady but sad. "Within the last moon cycle, I'd guess. I saw it in the garden—the way the shadows bent toward him, how the flowers turned away. It's unmistakable."

Iza stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. "Then I have to tell him. He has a right to know—I have to—"

"Sit down, Iza." Oby's voice was firm, but not unkind. "You know that's not how this works. The more he knows, the stronger the pull will be."

Iza froze for a moment before sinking back into her chair, her trembling hands clasped in her lap. "It's not fair," she said, her voice breaking. "He's already been through so much."

Oby came around the table, pulling Iza into a hug, the kind that felt like it should fix everything but couldn't. "I know," she murmured, stroking her niece's hair like she used to when Iza was little. "It's not fair. It never is. But he's stronger than you think. Your mother's blood runs in his veins, and she..." Oby hesitated, something flickering in her eyes. "She survived things no one else could."

Iza pulled back, her tears streaking silently down her face. "But can it be undone?" she asked, her voice small, clinging to the fragile thread of hope.

Oby sighed, her cowries clicking softly as she shook her head. "If a leopard has marked him..." She trailed off, searching for the right words. "This didn't happen on a whim. Were-beasts like leopards, they're patient. They don't claim someone without knowing them. Studying them. Waiting. This has been in motion for a long time."

"But there must be something we can do—" Iza started, her voice rising again.

"There's no magic for this," Oby interrupted gently. "No spell, no ritual. A were-beast's imprint is older than anything we can break. Even if every witch in St. Leo joined hands, it wouldn't matter. Some bonds are... permanent."

Iza looked away, biting her lip as fresh tears welled up. "It's not right," she whispered.

Oby nodded quietly, her hand resting on Iza's shoulder. "No, it's not. But life rarely is."

Iza slumped back into her chair, her fingers tracing the grooves of the wooden table as if the answer might be carved somewhere in its grain. "So that's it?" she asked, her voice barely louder than a breath. "He doesn't even get a choice?"

Oby sighed, the kind of sigh that carried years of stories she'd never told. "Oh, my dear girl," she said softly, her words heavy and familiar, like they'd been used too many times before. "It's the curse of our kind, isn't it? Witches never end up with their love interests. It's the one story we can't rewrite, no matter how much we want to." She reached across the table, squeezing Iza's hand in a way that was both comforting and heartbreaking. "Your mother knew this with your father. And me—" Oby's gaze drifted to the dark garden, where fireflies flickered like tiny, defiant stars. "Well, some heartbreaks don't leave. They just... settle in, like an old coat you can't bring yourself to throw away."

The night crept in around them, cool and quiet, carrying the faint sweetness of jasmine and the far-off sound of rustling leaves. Somewhere beyond the garden, too distant to see but close enough to feel, a leopard moved through the woods. Silent. Patient. Watching. And Nze, unaware, walked beneath her gaze, his shadow stretching long and fragile in the fading light.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚

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