Chapter 2 — The Letting Go

The pawnshop on Judges Avenue smelled of old metal and someone else's regret. Sipho had worked there eleven years and knew the smell of a bad item before it hit the counter.

The music box was bad.

A woman brought it in on a Tuesday. Carved rosewood, small enough to fit in two palms. She wouldn't touch it with bare hands.

"Burn it," she said. "I don't want money. I just want it gone."

Sipho didn't ask questions. That was another thing eleven years had taught him.

He locked it in the back room. That night he dreamed of a boy standing in tall grass, calling a name Sipho didn't know but somehow recognised.

Wednesday he tried the incinerator. The box came out cool and unmarked, and Sipho stood there longer than he should have, just looking at the carvings.

The next day he tried five more times. That's when he thought of calling the pastor. The pastor left without finishing his prayer. Sipho told himself it meant nothing, then checked the back room twice before closing.

Friday he researched. Forums, books, then a call to his mother's cousin in Rustenburg who knew about such things. He photographed the carvings. He cross-referenced. He filled half a green notebook.

The cousin called back Saturday morning.

"Stop," she said. "Whatever you're doing — stop."

"I'm trying to destroy it."

"No." Her voice was careful. "You're feeding it. Every time you look, every time you wonder — that's what keeps it warm."

Sipho set the phone down.

He looked at the box.

He looked away.

Then, slowly, he looked back.