The more he wrote, the more the small misfortunes seemed to pause.
But the curse wasn’t done testing him.
---
**Chapter 3: The Cracks Widen**
By month three, the bad luck had become targeted.
Aisha’s mother was hospitalized with a sudden heart issue. Jamal’s best friend from high school died in a car accident. Their savings account was hit with mysterious fraud charges. Malik, once a happy, chunky baby who loved being held exactly like in that photo Jamal had taken—his little face pressed close, lips puckered, eyes full of curiosity—began having nightmares. The baby would wake screaming, reaching for something invisible.
Jamal started having full conversations with the stone when he was alone. He felt ridiculous, but desperation has a way of humbling pride.
One night, after a particularly bad day where he lost a major contract at work, Jamal sat on the couch with Malik sleeping against his chest, just like the photo. He held the stone in his free hand and began speaking aloud the names he had gathered:
“Kofi. Abena. Kwame. Serwa. Elijah. Ruth. Marcus. Aisha. Malik…”
The stone cooled for the first time since he’d found it.
A soft wind moved through the house though all windows were closed. Malik sighed in his sleep and smiled for the first time in weeks.
But peace never lasts when a curse has momentum.
The dreams grew darker. Jamal saw versions of the future: Malik at twelve years old, angry and lost, caught in the justice system. Aisha leaving after too many unexplained tragedies. Jamal himself broken, sitting alone in an empty house with the stone glowing mockingly on the table.
He realized the curse wasn’t random cruelty. It was a final warning from ancestors who had endured hell so their descendants could have a chance. They weren’t punishing him—they were trying to save the line from complete erasure.
