Chapter 84 CHAPTER 84
The Watcher
The afternoon sun drifted low, smearing the sky with streaks of gold and orange, a painter’s brush left too heavy against the horizon. Within the sprawling stone mansion, tucked neatly behind high iron gates, the Nun sat motionless in her private chamber. The room was dim, deliberately so, the thick curtains drawn just enough to allow a single sliver of light to stretch across the polished wooden floor.
She sat in an armchair carved with spirals of oak leaves, her habit pressed neat against her shoulders, her hands folded on her lap like a woman in prayer. Yet she was not praying. She was watching.
Beyond the window, she could see Ares and Julian.
The two men stood in the garden, sleeves rolled, backs bent, hands busy. There was nothing casual about them. Everything about their movements looked innocent. Julian’s broad shoulders heaved as he carried wooden crates filled with decorations, setting them down near the trellis where roses crawled. Ares, quieter, steadier, adjusted the angle of lanterns strung between poles, measuring the height with the precision of a man who never left anything to chance.
From her vantage point, the Nun could see how they communicated, little gestures, glances sharp as blades, words lost to distance but not to meaning. Their lips moved, their brows furrowed, then relaxed. Ares would gesture toward the east lawn, Julian would nod, and both men would move as if answering some silent command.
The garden itself was already half transformed. Tables lay folded on the grass, ready to be dressed in linen. A stage was being constructed in the far corner, wooden beams creaking as workers hammered them into place. The faint, rhythmic thud of nails driven into timber drifted upward through the window, dull against the silence of the Nun’s chamber.
She tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing.
Children’s laughter would soon fill that space. The kind of laughter that stained air with innocence, ringing high above the murmurs of the adults. The Nun’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she said nothing. Her thoughts were a fortress, and no one breached them.
She leaned back against the chair, listening not to the garden, not to the hammering, but to the pulse of her own silence. It was a silence that carried weight, a silence that watched, judged, remembered.
Ares lifted his hand to his brow, wiping away sweat. His shirt clung to his body, muscles shifting beneath it as he straightened. Julian handed him a bottle of water, and though their movements were ordinary, the Nun saw more.
She wondered not aloud, whether tomorrow would break that tether. Whether tomorrow, the fragile illusion of control would shatter.
But she did not move. She did not call for anyone. She simply watched.
And the garden grew fuller, brighter, louder beneath her window.
Across town, the air smelled of dust and roasted corn.
The market stretched endlessly, a labyrinth of stalls piled with every imaginable thing, baskets of tomatoes so red they looked painted, stacks of onions tied together by their roots, bundles of spinach, peppers glistening like jewels. Vendors called out above the din, their voices overlapping in a chaotic chorus. Children darted between feet, women haggled, and men carried sacks so heavy they bowed under the weight.
Chloe walked beside her boss’s husband, apron strings still knotted at her back, though the fabric was dulled by dust. Mr. Tanaka strode ahead with the purpose of a man on a mission. He carried a notebook in one hand, flipping through the list his wife had prepared, his other hand busy gesturing at stalls.
“Chloe, look,” he said sharply, pointing to a stall where a woman fanned flies away from a mound of yams. “We’ll need at least two baskets. Ask her the price.”
Chloe nodded, slipping into the rhythm of the market as though she had done it her whole life. She approached the yam seller, her voice polite but steady, bargaining with the ease of someone used to stretching every coin. She managed to shave off a few naira, and when she returned to Mr. Tanaka, his approving grunt was as good as praise.
They moved from stall to stall. Bags of rice, cartons of eggs, trays of chicken, spices in glass jars that caught the sunlight. At every turn, Chloe carried what she could, sometimes a sack slung against her hip, sometimes a basket balanced in her arms. Sweat pricked at her neck, and the noise pressed into her skull, but she kept moving.
The list seemed endless. Carrots, cabbage, fresh herbs, palm oil, flour for baking cakes. Chloe’s arms ached, her legs burned, but she stayed beside her boss, matching his pace.
As they reached a spice stall, Mr. Tanaka paused, inhaling deeply. “Perfect,” he murmured. “Cinnamon, cloves, star anise. We’ll need them for the desserts. Pick out the freshest jars.”
Chloe obeyed, carefully lifting bottles, unscrewing lids to catch the sharp fragrance before nodding. She packed them into the basket, her movements precise.
At some point, as they passed a stall brimming with fruits, mangoes, oranges, bananas stacked in pyramids, Chloe’s steps slowed. She ran her fingers lightly over the smooth peel of a mango, and for a heartbeat, her face softened.
The fruit reminded her of summers long past, of afternoons beneath trees where laughter wasn’t forced, where the sun didn’t feel like a burden. She blinked hard, pulling her hand back before Mr. Tanaka could notice her hesitation.
“Fruits!” he declared briskly, scribbling on his list. “Children love fruits. Pick the sweetest.”
Chloe nodded again, silently filling a basket with mangoes and oranges, her eyes avoiding his.
Hours passed this way. The sun climbed higher, then dipped, painting the market stalls in deeper shades of amber. Chloe’s body begged for rest, but her mind remained sharp. Each item on the list ticked away, each bargain struck, each purchase wrapped and tied.
At last, when the cart was filled to the brim with goods, Mr. Tanaka closed his notebook with finality.
“That’s everything,” he said, his voice satisfied. “Tomorrow, the children will have a feast.”
Chloe exhaled slowly, a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She glanced at the mound of food piled high on the cart, her chest tightening.
A feast for strangers. A feast for children she didn’t know. And yet she would be the one in the kitchen, her hands shaping the dishes, her sweat salted into the food. She wondered if they would notice her work at all. Or if she would simply blend into the background like always, invisible as steam rising from a pot.
The market noise dimmed behind them as they walked toward the waiting van. Mr. Tanaka barked orders at the driver, ensuring the crates were loaded properly. Chloe stood a little to the side, brushing dust from her apron, her eyes catching on the horizon where the sun had nearly disappeared.
She tightened her grip on the basket in her arms, her gaze fixed on nothing in particular.
“Come, Chloe,” Mr. Tanaka called, climbing into the van. “I can’t wait for my life to get well and continue running her restaurant, I am tired already.”
Chloe simply nodded.