In a quiet African village… a boy touched a drum he was never meant to play. And that single rhythm… woke something sleeping in the dark. Kofi was only twelve… soft-spoken, shy… but when his hands touched a drum, the whole village felt it. He didn’t learn drumming — he carried it in his blood. A rhythm older than memory. But the elders had one rule — one rhythm forbidden to all. The Rhythm of the Gate. A pattern said to open the path between the world of the living… and the world of the ancestors. On a night when even the moon hid behind the clouds, Kofi felt something calling him. A heartbeat that wasn’t his. A whisper only he could hear. He sat. He raised his hands. And he played the ancient pattern. DUM… dum… da-dum… The ground shivered. The air thickened. And from the darkness… shadows began to gather. The ancestors rose — tall, silent, glowing with ancient fire. Their steps made no sound… Their eyes carried the weight of centuries. They did not come in anger… but in warning. The ancestors poured their message into Kofi’s heart: “Power is a bridge. And not every bridge should be crossed.” When the sun finally touched the sky… The spirits were gone. Kofi survived. But the drum — the bridge — was forever broken. And from that day… No one in the village dared play the Rhythm of the Gate again.