When We Were Fireflies

anna rested her head against the window for a moment longer than necessary, watching as raindrops clung to the edge before sliding down in silence. She hated land

photo frames, muttering prayers under her breath, then dusting the same shelf twice. Her grandmother's routines were a kind of love language. As they drove into the city, the memories rushed in like sudden heat. The red rooftops, scattered like pepper seeds across the vast hills. The street hawkers yelling over each other, their voices full of urgency and hope. The okadas weaving between cars like water through rock. The heavy scent of fried plantain and roasted corn thickening the air. Everything had changed. And somehow, nothing had. By the time they reached the house, the morning sun was peeking through the clouds like a shy child. The old colonial-style bungalow still stood tall, its whitewashed walls now faded with age, but still beautiful. Bougainvillea vines curled lazily around the porch rail, their petals wet with dew. "Mama Rose!" Adanna called as she stepped inside. From the kitchen came a loud "Ehen! My baby has returned o!" followed by hurried footsteps, the slap of rubber slippers against tiled floor, and then the warmest arms she'd ever known wrapped around her in a tight embrace. The hug smelled like cloves, antiseptic, and palm oil. "I thought I had lost you to that London life,