The storm had passed, but the air still carried its ghost.

  Rainwater dripped from the edges of the clay-tiled roof, forming quiet puddles in the packed earth outside. Broken leaves littered the path. The vines on the perimeter walls hissed and curled, retreating as the sky brightened. Light slanted through the window slats, golden and soft, like it had been filtered through memory.

  Kazeem stirred on the floor mat.

  His body ached, but not in the way it had for days. The heaviness was still there, but it had changed shape , like something deep inside him had been fed a crumb too small to satisfy but too rich to ignore.

  Then came the smell.

  His eyes widened.

  *Foutou and sauce graine.

  The scent was heavy with spice and warmth, thick enough to reach down his throat and slap his hunger awake. He sat up, rubbing his face, only now realizing how drenched he’d been in sweat. His legs trembled as he stood, but they carried him toward the kitchen with urgency.

  The little house was made of reddish mud brick, with thin wooden beams lining the ceiling and woven mats covering the floor. It was modest with three rooms and a single hallway , but the walls were clean, swept every morning by his mother. Dried herbs hung near the door, and the air inside always smelled faintly of charcoal and cloves.

  He found her at the hearth, stirring the sauce with practiced grace.

  Yasséna’s presence filled the room without noise.

  Her back was straight, the kind of posture born not from pride, but from discipline. Her wrapper was tightly knotted around wide hips, dyed in earth tones and tied with effortless precision. A patterned cloth, the color of rust and mango bark, wrapped her long braided hair , thick coils threaded with glints of gold that caught the firelight whenever she moved. Her skin was deep and unblemished, save for the old burn marks on her forearms , quiet, healed symbols of a life spent near flames.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  She rarely raised her voice. There was a silence to her that didn’t feel cold but settled over the home like a blanket. Her amber eyes , darker and deeper than Kazeem’s but just as strange, held the kind of calm that made people second-guess whether she knew more than she let on.

  She hummed as she cooked. No melody, no lyrics , just rhythm. The rhythm of routine, of knowing how much salt to add by feel, not measurement. Of listening to the bubbling of the sauce and the crackle of yam as if they were voices. Her silence was never empty. It warmed the walls. Made the small house feel whole.

  To Kazeem, she was quiet fire.

  Always there. Always burning.

  She turned at the sound of his footsteps.

  “Eh? so you’re alive,” she teased, though her voice carried more relief than humor. “Sit. Before you fall again.”

  Kazeem didn’t argue. He lowered himself to the mat beside the small wooden table, and she placed a steaming bowl in front of him. The foutou was firm and warm, and the sauce graine clung to it like silk made of oil and pepper.

  He hesitated.

  Then took a bite.

  And his body responded.

  He grabbed the first ball with trembling fingers, scooping up sauce, chewing fast,too fast.

  His second bite was bigger. Third, faster. Then he coughed. Sauce caught in his throat.

  “Hey slow down!” his mother snapped, handing him water. “I know you’re hungry, but you’re not racing death.”

  He chugged, coughed again, then kept eating. The food no longer felt like dust in his mouth. It tasted like warmth. Like memory. Like something alive.

  For the first time in what felt like years, the food didn’t fight him. It filled him. Not completely, no, something was still missing but it eased the edge of the hunger, enough for thought to return.

  His mother watched him with a careful gaze.

  “I can understand that you’re hungry,” she said slowly. “After all, you didn’t eat anything yesterday. But don’t tell me that was really why you passed out. What happened? Was it the heat?”

  Kazeem blinked. His hand froze halfway to his mouth.

  Yesterday?

  His heartbeat stumbled.

  “…Yesterday?”

  His voice was low, dry. A laugh almost escaped his throat, but it was the wrong kind of laugh… the kind that trembled behind the ribs.

  His mother nodded, face tight with concern. “Yes. You scared me. You were pale as chalk”

  instead of responding he asked “Mama what day is it ?”

  ”The 10th, why ? Wait don’t change the subject! Do you need a slap before answering ? ”

  The 10th?

  He dropped the foutou back into the bowl.

  “It’s the 10th…” he whispered, barely audible. His eyes stung, becoming watery not from spice but from something deeper. A flood of thoughts crashed into him.

  The trench.

  The whisper.

  The scavenger.

  Gb?.

  It wasn’t the 9th.

  It wasn’t the 9th!

  His breath caught. A weak sob almost escaped, but he bit it back. He wasn’t ready to cry. Not yet. His fingers curled around the edge of the bowl like an anchor. He wanted to tell everything, ask for help , hug his mother while crying and wait for her to find a solution for him . Some might’ve called him childish.

  However who could blame him ? A lot of grown adult would have lost their mind just experimenting half of the event that happened to him the previous days. And let’s not forget that he isn’t even 20 yet !

  But then he remembered the vision he saw last time he tried to.

  The bloody scene was enough to make him forget about his hunger and swallow everything he wanted to do .

  A silence stretched between them.

  “I’m fine,” he said at last, eyes lowered. “Really. I think it was just… the storm. Maybe the heat.”