Page 1 of The Second Sight (Wanderlust Emporium Presents, Season One)

KASI

Idragged myself through the front door, my backpack feeling like it weighed a hundred pounds.

The house was quiet, too quiet. Dad wouldn’t be home for hours.

He was somewhere delivering mail across town.

My head throbbed from Ms. Garcia’s pop quiz in Algebra II, and my stomach growled, reminding me I’d skipped lunch to cram for the test. Sophomore year at Rosemont High was kicking my ass, and it was only Tuesday.

All I wanted was to jump into my bed and not think about the mountain of homework waiting for me.

My backpack slid from my shoulder, landing with a thud by the entryway.

I’d get to that later. Maybe. Probably not until after dinner.

I kicked off my gym shoes by the door, not bothering to line them up neatly like Mama always insisted. I took a quick look in the mirror by the door. I was still Black, still a girl and still magical, all I needed to be.

The hardwood floor was cool beneath my sock-covered feet. I marched through the living room like I did every weekday. The house smelled of fabric softener. Why? Today wasn’t my mama’s wash day.

I shuffled down the hallway toward my bedroom, my fingers trailing along the wall for support. My legs felt like bricks. Why was I so tired when all I did was go from one classroom to the next?

When I finally reached my room, I collapsed onto my bed, my back on the pillows pressed against the headboard, with arms splayed out at my sides.

The ceiling fan spun lazily above me, creating a hypnotic pattern that made my eyelids grow heavier by the second.

I must’ve forgot to cut the fan off this morning.

Just five minutes, I thought to myself. Then I’ll start the history paper. No, then I’ll get a snack. I didn’t eat lunch today. I closed my eyes, letting the quiet of the house take over me.

Five minutes. That’s all I needed...

The greenest forest appeared around me without warning.

One moment I was drifting in darkness, and the next I stood among towering trees that blocked out most of the sky.

The air was thick and humid. I tried to catch my breath.

This wasn’t a place I recognized. This land was dense and foreign, nothing like the manicured parks of my quiet suburban neighborhood.

Massive trees surrounded me that glistened in the filtered moonlight.

Something moved ahead of me. I wasn’t alone.

A figure burst through the foliage, running at full speed.

Even in the dim light, I knew immediately who it was.

Mama. Her dark skin gleamed with sweat, her purple braids flying behind her as she sprinted between the trees.

Her eyes were wide with something I’d never seen on her face before, pure fear.

“Mama?” I called out, but she didn’t hear me. Couldn’t hear me. This wasn’t real. This was something else. Something that felt both distant and immediate, like a memory that hadn’t happened yet.

She ran with desperation. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps.

Her flowing white dress was torn at the hem, smeared with dirt and what looked like blood along one side.

This wasn’t my mother as I knew her. My mother was a calm, collected woman who ran the register at the Razzle Dazzle Magic Candle with a perfect smile and made delicious pancakes on Sunday mornings.

This person was someone rough and wild, and running for her life.

The reason for her terror emerged from the shadows.

A man, tall and imposing, moved through the forest with a predatory grace.

His skin was so dark it seemed to absorb the moonlight rather than reflect it.

He was dressed in camouflage clothing that made him nearly invisible among the trees, but his presence was unmistakable, powerful and menacing.

He shouted commands in a language I couldn’t understand, his deep voice carrying through the forest like crackling thunder.

My stomach twisted as I watched him close in on my mother.

His stride was longer, his movements more confident in this foreign terrain.

Mama stumbled, barely catching herself before continuing her desperate flight.

But the momentary falter was all he needed.

The distance between them closed rapidly.

“Run, Ma!” I screamed, but my voice made no sound in this place. I tried to move toward them, but my body stayed rooted in place. I was forced to watch as the scene unfolded.

With a final burst of speed, the man lunged forward.

His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Mama’s upper arm in a grip so tight I could almost feel the bruise.

He yanked her backward, sending her crashing against his chest. She struggled fiercely, kicking and twisting, but he held her firmly with one muscular arm.

“You cannot run forever, Theia,” he growled, his accent thick and unfamiliar. “Your kind will soon be extinct. Accept your fate, girl.”

My mama’s face contorted with rage. “I will never surrender to Bambara, Desmond,” she spat back. “Not while I still breathe all of the gods’ air.”

His laugh was sharp, like broken glass. He leaned in closer, his face inches from hers. “Then perhaps you should stop breathing.”

In a motion so swift I almost missed it; Mama’s hand disappeared into a fold of her dress and emerged clutching something that caught the moonlight.

A long and slender blade with an intricate golden handle that seemed to glow with its own light.

Before the man could react, she slashed upward with the knife; the edge catching him across the cheek.

Blood, dark and thick, sprayed from the wound. He howled in pain and rage, his grip loosening just enough for Mama to twist free. She backed away with the golden blade held before her defensively, and her chest heaving up and down.

“Next time,” she warned, “it will be your throat, Desmond Moreau.”

The blood flowed down his face, dripping onto his camo vest as his features twisted in fury. He pressed his fingers against his fresh wound, his eyes never leaving her face.

Mama quickly turned and ran into the darkness.

“There is nowhere you can hide from me!” Desmond’s voice boomed.

She turned back while still running away and looked at me. Now she could see me. I wanted to run to her, but I would have to run toward him, and I couldn’t move, no matter how I tried.

Her voice whispered against the wind for only my ears to hear. “Trust your dreams, sweetheart.”

I jerked awake with a gasp, my body convulsing upward as if pulled by invisible strings. My heart hammered in my chest like it was trying to escape. Sweat drenched my t-shirt. I couldn’t catch my breath. Each inhale did nothing to calm the panic coursing through me.

My hands trembled violently as I pushed myself up from the carpet.

My mouth was dry. Wait. Why was I on the floor?

The room spun around as I struggled to separate the dream from reality.

But it hadn’t been just a dream. I knew better.

This was something else that I didn’t want to claim.

Something that had happened in the past or something that would happen.

The details were too vivid, too specific to be my imagination, but I was sure my mama didn’t know some native African man from a random forest.

I tried to erase the image of that blade slicing through flesh, the terror on my mama’s face as she ran. But the images remained, burned into my mind, for as long as I stayed in my right mind.

“Just a dream,” I whispered to the empty room, knowing it was a lie even as the words left my lips.

But deep down, I knew. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

I staggered up on my feet and out of my bedroom toward the kitchen. The dream, or vision, whatever it is, it was over. My throat was dry. I needed water. I needed to breathe. I needed to convince myself that what I’d seen wasn’t real, even though my brain told me otherwise.

The hallway stretched longer than I remembered.

Framed family photos lined the walls. Mama and Daddy on their tenth wedding anniversary trip, me holding up a track and field trophy in sixth grade, and the three of us at Navy Pier last summer.

Mama’s smile seemed different now, secretive, like she’d been planning something. Had she?

The house remained eerily silent as I walked into the kitchen. Everything was in its place. The breakfast dishes were dried in the rack. The fruit bowl was centered on the island. Normal. Ordinary. Except nothing felt normal anymore. Not after that scary dream.

I reached into the fridge for a bottle of water.

The cold liquid hit my empty stomach hard, but I gulped it down anyway.

That’s when I saw it. There was a folded piece of paper propped against the sugar bowl on the counter.

A single sheet from Mama’s notepad that she kept in the kitchen junk drawer.

Something about its placement was off. She could’ve texted me or Dad, but a handwritten note. Too old school, too deliberate. Seeing it sent a fresh wave of dread through me. I picked it up carefully. I didn’t have a reason to. I just did.

I unfolded it slowly. Mama always wrote with her special vintage gold pen. The ink was dark purple, her signature color.

Dear Malcolm and Kasinda,

By the time you read this, I will be gone. I’m sorry to do this to you both, but there are things about me, about my past, that I’ve never told you. Things that have caught up with me. It’s not safe for me to stay. It’s better this way and safer for you both.

Malcolm, my love, thank you for sixteen beautiful years. Please don’t try to find me. Take care of our girl.

Kasinda, my heart, I love you more than you’ll ever know. I’m sorry I won’t see you grow up. Trust your dreams, sweetheart. They will show you more truth than you realize.

I love you both. Please believe that, but this goodbye is forever.

Theia

The paper slipped from my fingers, floating to the floor. My vision blurred. This couldn’t be happening. Not after that crazy, irrational dream. Not like this.

My knees buckled beneath me, sending me crashing to the tile floor. The impact barely registered through the shock. I was out.

My eyes opened with no recollection of how much time had passed.

I looked over at the microwave. I was only out for about a minute.

How many times was I going to have to faint from not eating to stop missing meals?

The note was real. She was gone. My chest felt hollow.

I wasn’t one of those teenagers who hated their mother.

I loved mine. She is— was the best mother.

The tears came violently fast. My body shook with sobs that ripped through my chest like open-heart surgery. I knew this was real. I saw it. I felt it. I dreamt it.

Trust your dreams, she’d written. My dreams. The forest. The scary man called Desmond. The golden blade. It wasn’t just a nightmare in the daytime. It, the dream, was something else.

My tears eventually slowed, not because the pain lessened but because my body had run out of moisture to spare. My eyes felt swollen and raw, my throat ached from crying, and a dull headache throbbed behind my temples.

The sound of a key in the front door lock jolted me back to reality.

I was sitting on the living room couch now.

How did I get here? Dad. Oh god. The realization hit me.

He didn’t know. I had to tell him or just give him the stupid fuckin’ note.

The note that crushed me into pieces. I had to watch his reaction.

I heard the thud of his work shoes being kicked off. The jingle of keys landing in the ceramic dish below the mirror that Mom had made in that pottery class last year. Then there was the thumping sound of a tumble.

“Kasi? Why is your backpack on this goddamn floor?” His voice carried from the entryway. “I swear this girl trying to kill me.” He mumbled under his breath to himself.

I couldn’t answer. My voice was trapped somewhere in the sunken place. I heard his footsteps approaching, unaware that everything had drastically changed.

He appeared in the doorway of our living room, still in his blue postal uniform.

The short-sleeved shirt was dirty and wrinkled from a long day delivering mail in the summer heat.

His face showed only mild concern when he first saw me sitting on the couch with the TV off.

Then his eyes took in my face and the crumpled note in my hand.

Then something shifted in his expression.

“Kasi? What’s wrong?” He crossed the room in three long strides, sitting beside me on the couch. “What happened?”

I couldn’t speak. I just handed him the note and watched him take it. His hands were steady as he unfolded the paper, but he gripped it tighter with each line he read.

The transformation was subtle at first. There was a tightening around his eyes. Then it overtook him completely. His broad shoulders curved inward like he’d been punched in the gut.

“She’s gone...” he whispered, and let out a chuckle of disbelief. “I can’t believe it.”

He blinked rapidly, trying to hold back tears. My strong father, who fixed everything from broken toys to scraped knees, looked utterly lost.

I reached for his hand, gripping it tightly as we sat together on the couch, united in our shock and grief.

Neither of us spoke again for a long time.

What was there to say? The person who completed our little trio had cut herself out of the picture, leaving us with nothing but a note covered in stupid purple ink and a thousand unanswered questions.

In that moment, I made a silent decision.

I would tell my best friend Brooklyn about my dream, my vision, whatever it was.

But no one else. Not even Dad. Especially not Dad.

He had enough to deal with without me telling him about a strange African man chasing Mom through a forest or jungle.

I’d kept my dreams locked away from him.

My best friend already thought I was weird.

I couldn’t believe I was going to tell Brooklyn I dreamt my mother left me.

Then I woke up from the dream, and it was true.

On that day, Tuesday, I made a vow. I wouldn’t forget. I couldn’t forget. Because somewhere, deep down, I knew my dream was the key to understanding why Mama had really left us.