The mayor's house stood high above the town, a sentinel on the hill, its whitewashed walls turned gold by the flickering glow of lanterns. The cobblestone path that wound up toward it was lined with jasmine bushes, their scent thick in the evening air, heavy as the silence that clung to Onwuka's skin. Each step felt like a small betrayal of the sea that had brought him here, its whispers still echoing in the depths of his mind, urging him forward even as doubt wrapped around his throat like a noose.

"You understand the honor being extended to you," Senhor Ricardo murmured as they approached the veranda. His words carried the weight of unspoken warnings. "Few men of your... background... are invited to dine with Senhor Eduardo—the mayor."

Onwuka's fingers tightened around the bottle of cachaça. "I understand perfectly, Senhor."

The veranda stretched before them, its wooden pillars entwined with flowering vines that trembled in the evening breeze like nervous witnesses. Oil lamps flickered behind lace-curtained windows, casting the dining room in an amber glow that felt more like an accusation than a welcome.

"Ah, our guests have arrived!" Senhor Eduardo's voice boomed across the space as they entered. The mayor's thick mustache twitched with practiced joviality, but his eyes – sharp as a merchant's scales – missed nothing. "Senhor Ricardo, always punctual. And this must be the dockworker I've heard so much about."

The warmth of the candlelit space did not touch Onwuka. The polished wood of the dining table, the fine china arranged in delicate precision, the scent of roasted fish and spices rising from golden platters—it was all a tableau of wealth, carefully arranged and preserved like something behind glass. A world he could see but never truly enter.

"Your hospitality honors me, Senhor," Onwuka said, the Portuguese words feeling strange on his tongue, too formal, too far from the language of his heart.

"Come, come. Let me introduce you to my family." The mayor gestured toward the table. "My son, António. And his future wife, Maria."

The words struck Onwuka like an open palm to the chest. Maria sat like a statue, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on the elaborate centerpiece of tropical flowers. When she finally looked up, the weight of her gaze nearly brought him to his knees.

António leaned forward, his hand sliding possessively across the table toward Maria's. "Senior Ricardo speaks highly of your dockworking skills. Though I confess, I've always found it curious how men of your kind learn such things without proper schooling."

"António," Maria's voice was soft but carried an edge. "Perhaps we should let our guest sit before beginning an interrogation."

"Not at all," Onwuka replied, his voice steady despite the storm in his chest. "The stars are excellent teachers, Senhor António. They speak to all who learn to listen, regardless of their... kind."

Maria's fingers twitched beneath António's hand, and for a moment, Onwuka caught a glimpse of something behind her careful mask – apology, guilt, longing, or perhaps all three tangled together like the vines on the veranda. But then she looked away, and whatever truth he thought he saw vanished behind the veil of propriety.

"Please, sit," Senhor Eduardo gestured to an empty chair, far enough from Maria to maintain decorum, close enough to torture. "We have much to discuss. And I believe you brought cachaça? Excellent. Nothing loosens the tongue for business like a good drink."

As Onwuka took his seat, the sea's whispers turned to roars in his mind. He had been a fool to come here, to think he could navigate these waters where every word was a reef waiting to tear his heart to shreds. But he was here now, trapped in this performance of civility.

The meal began with the careful dance of spoons against porcelain, of cordial questions meant to probe and test. The mayor leaned forward, his interest a sharp thing masked in courtesy.

"Tell me of the lighthouse," he said, cutting into his fish. "How does a man from... where did you say? Onitsha? How does such a man come to tend our docks?"

"The sea chose me, Senhor," Onwuka answered, his voice steady as the tide. He had learned to tell these stories, to shape them into something these people could swallow. "As it chooses all who listen to its wisdom."

António snorted softly. "Wisdom? From waves and wind?"

"The ocean speaks many languages," Onwuka continued, feeling Maria's gaze on him like a physical touch. "It warns us of what approaches. And lately, it has been... restless. The light in the tower flickers strangely, even on clear nights. Something is coming."

"Superstition," Clara, António's sister, whispered to the young woman beside her, loud enough to carry. "Next he'll tell us the fish speak to him too."

The mayor's laugh rolled across the table like thunder – deep, threatening rain. "An interesting tale. Tell me, do they teach all slaves to speak such poetry in Africa? Or were you... special?"

The word dripped with contempt. A ripple of amusement passed down the length of the table, rippling the surface of carefully maintained civility. Clara's soft snicker pierced the air like a needle.

"Eduardo," Dona Sofia murmured, her fingers playing with her pearl necklace. "Must we discuss such things at dinner? My stomach turns at the thought of unwashed hands at my table."

Maria's fork clattered against her plate. "Mama, please—"

"No, no, let him answer," the mayor interrupted, swirling the wine in his crystal goblet. The ring on his finger caught the light, a golden eye watching, judging. "I'm curious how our... guest... views his position here."

Onwuka felt the familiar weight of humiliation settle on his shoulders. He had known this weight before, had learned to carry it like a second skin. But tonight, with the sea's warning pulsing in his blood and Maria's presence burning beside him, it felt heavier than ever.

"Your curiosity honors me," he said carefully, each word chosen like steps across treacherous ground. "But perhaps we should discuss the lighthouse's warnings—"

"Warnings?" The mayor's voice cracked like a whip. "You presume to warn me? In my own house?" He leaned forward, all pretense of civility falling away. "Let me be clear. Paraty may not keep slaves anymore, but that doesn't mean you can rise above what you were born to be. Know your place."

"Father," Maria's voice trembled. "He means no disrespect. The lighthouse is—"

"Silence!" The mayor slammed his hand on the table, making the crystal dance. "I don't need a slave scaring my townspeople or telling me how to run my town. You've forgotten yourself, dockworker. Perhaps a public reminder is in order – a flogging in the square, before we ship you somewhere more... appropriate to your station."

The candlelight caught in the wine, red as blood. The sea howled in Onwuka's veins, a storm surge of rage and grief and something older, something that tasted of iron and salt and destiny.

He rose slowly, his chair scraping against the floor like a curse.

"The sea does not recognize stations, Senhor," he said quietly. "It drowns kings and slaves alike. Remember that when the water rises."

The weight of their scorn pressed against his back as he walked out, heavy as chains but unable to hold him. Behind him, he heard Maria's breath catch like a sob, heard the violent scrape of her chair against wood as she stood. But he did not turn around. Could not turn around.

They would remember this night, when the water came. They would remember, and understand too late, that some warnings should be heeded, regardless of who speaks them.

Outside, the jasmine-scented air did little to cut through the burning in his chest. The town lay below, lanterns blinking like lost stars, the ocean stretching beyond, endless, waiting. Its whispers grew louder now, urgent, as if the waves themselves understood what had just transpired in that house of gold and contempt.

Then—

A hand, soft as a secret.

A voice, breathless, breaking. "Wuka, wait. Please."

Maria.

She had run after him, her skirts bunched in her fists, feet stumbling on the uneven path, her eyes wide with something like desperation. Something like love. Behind the gate, behind the flowering shrubs that would keep their secrets, hidden from the house's prying windows, she reached for his arm.

"They're wrong," she whispered, her fingers trembling against his skin. "All of them. So wrong. I'm sorry—I didn't know it would be like this. Father, he... he's never been so..."

"Honest?" Onwuka's voice was low, rough with unshed words.

"Cruel," she corrected, stepping closer. "I should have warned you. Should have known when António suggested the dinner that it wasn't... that they weren't..."

Her hand was warm against his arm, an anchor in a storm of emotions. He could still feel the sting of the mayor's words, the simmering humiliation that threatened to burn him alive, but her touch was something else entirely. A balm. A warning. A mistake waiting to happen. A truth they both knew but couldn't speak.

"Your father in-law sees what he wishes to see," Onwuka said softly. "As does your future husband."

Maria's fingers tightened. "Don't. Don't call him that. Not now. Not here."

He turned to her then, and she did not let go. Could not let go, perhaps, any more than he could stop the tide from rising.

Their breaths mingled in the dark, sweet with wine and unspoken desires. The night pressed close around them, intimate as a lover's embrace. He could smell the salt on her skin, the faint trace of cloves in her hair that reminded him of markets back home, of spices and possibilities and dreams that had led him across an ocean. He could see the way her lips parted, just slightly, the way her chest rose and fell with each shallow breath.

The world shrank until there was only this moment. Only this unbearable gravity between them, this pull that defied all laws of men and society.

"The sea," he whispered, though that wasn't what he meant to say at all. "It speaks of change coming."

"What kind of change?" Her voice was barely a breath, her face tilted up to his, close enough that he could count her eyelashes in the dim light.

"The kind that drowns old worlds and builds new ones."

Then—

"Maria!" António's voice cracked through the night like lightning, sharp and demanding, distant but closing in fast. "Where are you?"

Maria pulled away as if burned, but her hand lingered on his sleeve, fingers catching on the rough fabric as if unwilling to let this moment end. For the briefest second, he saw everything in her eyes – regret, longing, fear, and something fiercer that matched the storm in his own heart.

"I have to—" she started.

"I know."

She turned then, gathering her skirts, fleeing back to the house, to her fiancé, to the life that had been chosen for her. A life that would never, could never, include him. Her footsteps faded into the whisper of leaves and the distant crash of waves.

Onwuka exhaled, long and slow, letting the night air fill his lungs until they ached.

He walked, each step taking him further from the mayor's house, from Maria, from the world of golden light and crystal glasses. But with every step, the ocean's prophecy grew clearer. Change was coming, yes. But perhaps he wasn't just its messenger.

Perhaps he was its instrument.

The sea's whispers followed him, growing louder as he neared the cliffs. The wind curled through the trees, carrying a voice that did not belong to the living. And there, nestled among the rocks, something pulsed with light.

A shell, larger than the ones in his pocket. Glowing faintly, its surface etched with waves.

He picked it up.

The glow intensified. Shadows stretched around him, and the wind carried a voice—soft, knowing. The siren's voice.

"The tide comes soon."

He clutched the shell tighter, his pulse drumming against his ribs. The town below lay in quiet ignorance. The mayor's threat rang in his ears. He had a choice. Speak, and risk his life. Stay silent, and let the tide take them all.

Onwuka turned back toward Paraty, the weight of the shell, the weight of chains, pressing down on him as he walked into the night.

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