Chapter 48

It’s been a week since I came to stay with my grandmother. Seven long days of stillness, of silence, of pretending I’m not here. I haven’t left the bed. Not once. The sheets cling to my skin like a second layer, soaked with the weight of everything I’m too scared to say aloud. My body aches from lying still too long, but moving feels impossible—like if I shift, even a little, he’ll find me. Adrik. His name pulses in the back of my mind like a curse. Like a summons. I keep waiting for the sound of the door slamming open, for the heavy footsteps, for his voice calling my name in that terrifyingly calm tone he used when he was furious.

But it never comes. Only the quiet creak of the bedroom door as Grandma slips in each day, her eyes soft but unreadable. She brings me food—warm bowls of soup, rice, sometimes a piece of fried yam, always something comforting. And greens for Elsa, wrapped in damp newspaper. I don’t think she even knows who Elsa is, but she feeds her anyway, as if she understands that my rabbit is the last tether holding me to what’s left of peace.

She hasn’t asked questions. Not one. No "what happened," no "why are you like this," no "who are you running from." She simply lets me exist, in this fragile bubble of fear and numbness, and for that, I am more grateful than I can express. Maybe she sees the trembling in my hands when I reach for the tray. Maybe she sees the fear in my eyes that I can’t mask, no matter how much I try. Or maybe she knows—maybe she’s seen this kind of broken before.

I don’t know how long I can stay like this. Hidden. Silent. Waiting. But for now, this room, this bed, her quiet presence… it’s the only place in the world where I feel even the slightest bit safe.

The soft knock on the door came just after noon. Two short taps, as always. My signal that it was her—not him. I didn’t move. I barely breathed. A second passed, and then the door creaked open.

"Still alive in there?" Grandma’s voice floated into the room, low and warm, with that gentle scratch it had always carried—like smoke and stories. I didn’t answer. I hadn’t in days. She didn’t expect me to.

I heard the careful clink of porcelain as she set the tray on the old stool by the bed. Then came the rustle of a plastic bag—the greens for Elsa. My girl made a soft shuffle in the corner of her crate as if she already knew.

I kept my eyes closed, pretending I was asleep.

Then she said it—light, but laced with mischief. “You know, sweet girl, if I didn’t love you, I’d have hosed you down days ago. You’re starting to smell like the ghost of a goat market.”

My eyes snapped open, just a little.

She stood there with one hand on her hip and the other holding a towel. Her gray head wrap was lopsided today, and her wrapper was folded just below her knees like she’d been doing yard work. She looked nothing like the delicate grandmother I remembered from childhood photos—this woman was steel and sass.

She raised a brow when she saw me peek at her.

"Ah-ha!" she grinned. “So the dead girl does blink.”

A sound escaped me. Not a laugh. Not yet. But a sound. Something small and choked that might’ve been the first breath I’d taken in hours. She didn’t rush over or hug me or press. She just sat down at the foot of the bed and picked up Elsa’s greens, shaking them out like she was setting the table for royalty.

“You don’t have to talk,” she said softly, not looking at me. “But you’ll have to bathe. Even mourning should smell better than this.”

It was ridiculous. Absurd. Almost cruel. And for a split second—just one—I wanted to cry from somewhere that wasn’t fear. I wanted to curl up in her lap and sob and tell her everything. But I didn’t. I just let my eyes sting and turned my face into the pillow, swallowing the ache.

She didn’t move. She sat with me in the quiet, her fingers brushing Elsa’s ears. And when she finally left, the scent of soap and boiled yam followed her out like a promise.

The towel sat on the edge of the bed after Grandma left. I stared at it like it was something sacred and dangerous all at once. She hadn’t said it again—hadn’t pushed or joked when she came back later to leave dinner. She just gave me the same look. That quiet, stubborn one, like she was telling me, “You’re still alive. Start acting like it.”

By the time the sun had started to dip into that golden color it only gets in villages—warm and slow like syrup—I peeled the covers off.

The floor was cold under my feet. My legs trembled as I walked to the bathroom down the narrow hallway. It felt like dragging a ghost behind me. My own.

I didn’t recognize the girl in the mirror. Hollow eyes. Lips cracked. Hair wild. Skin dry and pale from hiding. I stripped slowly, mechanically, and stepped under the bucket of water like I was walking into a ritual. The cold shocked me, slapped against my back, but I didn’t flinch. I let it drip down like it might wash the memory of his voice out of my ears.

Adrik.

His name still made my throat tighten. But in that moment, I closed my eyes and whispered mine instead.

Joy.

I said it quietly, like a prayer. Like I was reminding myself that I existed.

Afterwards, I dressed in a clean shirt Grandma had left in the basket by the door and padded barefoot into the hallway. The house smelled like home—real home. Not the perfumed cage Adrik had kept me in. This was sweat and woodsmoke and old memories.

I followed the scent into the kitchen.

There she was—my grandmother—hunched slightly over the stove, stirring something thick and golden in her dented old pot. The rich aroma hit me instantly: yam porridge, soft yam chunks swimming in palm oil, with bits of dried fish and scent leaf.

She didn’t look up when I stepped in.

"I knew you’d come," she said simply, her voice calm but certain. "Nothing wakes the dead like the smell of yam."

I hovered near the doorway like a stranger, still unsure if I belonged in a world that tasted like comfort.

She looked over her shoulder then, her eyes resting on mine for a second too long.

“You bathed,” she said. “Good.”

Then, like she didn’t want to scare me back into silence, she turned back to her pot. "Set the table. Three plates."

I nodded. My hands still trembled, but I moved. Slowly. Carefully.

I reached for the plates, my fingers brushing the chipped edges like they were made of glass. It felt strange—setting a table. Doing something so normal after everything. I placed one down, then another beside it.

That’s when I paused.

Then my head clicked.

“Three plates?” I said slowly, my voice barely above a whisper. “We’re just two.”

Grandma didn’t answer right away.

She stirred the yam porridge gently, the thick sound of the spoon scraping the bottom of the pot filling the space between us. Then she let out a soft hum.

“I meant three,” she said, casually. “We’re not the only ones eating.”

I blinked.

My fingers curled tighter around the rim of the plate. “Who else?” I asked, but it came out too fast, too sharp. My chest had already started to tighten.

Still, she didn’t turn around. “Set the table, Joy.”

And just like that, the room felt too quiet.

Too stretched.

Like something invisible had just slipped inside and was standing behind me.

My hands were sweating.

My skin began to crawl.

Then—

The front door creaked open.

Every part of me locked in place. The porcelain in my hands felt like it would shatter with one more tremble. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t even turn. My mind had already gone dark, dragging me back to every hallway, every footstep, every slammed door in Adrik’s mansion.

He found me.

He found me.

No—he couldn’t have. Could he?

I stared at the plates, my vision blurring, my heartbeat thudding so loudly I couldn’t hear anything else. I wanted to scream but my throat felt sealed shut.

I heard the footsteps—slow, steady, coming down the hallway.

Closer.

Closer.

Then Grandma spoke again. Calm. Unbothered.

“Ah, you’re here,” she said over her shoulder. “Come and eat before it gets cold.”

I couldn’t turn.

I didn’t want to see who it was.

I didn’t want to see what was coming.