- Ancient Of Days - Paul Nwokocha

Overnight. In a single breath.

Not dramatically—not like a Hollywood curse. But a day here, a week there. A crease beside his mouth. A knuckle that ached before rain. His thirty-year-old face now looked forty. His hair, once thick as oiled rope, began to thin at the crown. Paul Nwokocha - Ancient Of Days

He calculated quickly, the way a gambler counts cards. Adwoa was old, near the end. To undo fifty years of blindness, to rebuild her marrow, to push back the grave—that would cost years. Not months. Years. Overnight

Paul felt the familiar pull—the heat behind his ribs, the whisper of the old song rising in his throat. He could heal her. He knew it. One touch, one word, and she would rise. once thick as oiled rope