by a gentle breeze. But once she began to share her memories, they poured forth like a torrent, cascading

days were filled with laughter and warmth, the kind that enveloped you like a soft, cozy blanket before things turned strange. Before Halimah stopped smiling and the air grew heavy with unspo

tened with the memory of youthful days spent in joyous company, and her voice faltered as she reminisced about the vibrant gatherings filled with music, laughter, and love that had once echoed

nt cousin's child, yet there was a stark chill in her voice, no warmth of affection. Halimah just stood there, quie

a glanced up, she noticed the gravity etched in Mrs. Adebayo's furrowed brow, the older woman's dark eyes glimmering with a mixture of concern and resolve. Every syllable she spoke felt like a stone dropped into the quiet tranquility of their tea time, sending ripples of unease through Zara's heart. The intricate blue floral pattern on the teacup felt almost fragile in her hands, a stark contrast to the heaviness of the conversation swirling around them. A fai

menial tasks that kept her busy and away from the world of play. I remember one day, I stumbled upon her in the backyard, just... staring at the

one, pressing down on her with an unbearable heaviness. The fluorescent lights above flic

more forceful than she intended, echoing off the stark white walls of the small office. Her hands clenched into fist

ee the truth. She brushed me off and told me to mind my own business. She called Halimah 'troubled'-'dramatic,' s

ned with age as if each mark held a memory of its own. The faint scent of

gertips. "Because someone made her that way." The words echoed in her mind, a haunting remin

ment. She spoke of hearing voices in the stillness of the night, of shadowy figures that slipped into her room when the house w

ead in disbelief. "And still, no one helped her,"

of her own inaction. "I was terrified of your aunt. Terrified of the

mah's pain pressed heavily against her chest, a burden too vast for one heart to bear. "She was just a child," Zara said, her

u're not like the rest of us, Zara. You're listening. You're open to her pain

ckering and casting dancing shadows along the walls. She sat at the old study desk, worn and scratched f

30th,

re. Auntie says I imagine things. That

e... don't forget me. D

lently down her cheek and whisper

r pain, her truth, her silent screams for help. She wouldn't remain silent anymore. Not for her aunt. Not for anyone. And somewhere deep withi