But I should have known that peace in Lagos never comes without a price, without a blade in its folds. I should have known the brighter Gregory's light shone on me, the darker the shadow it casts.
The weeks after the fire had blurred into a rhythm I had never known before. Not the rhythm of survival, not the desperate pulse of scraping money from the edges of Lagos life. No—this was a different cadence. Brighter. Softer. Almost obscene in its ease.
From morning till evening, customers streamed in. Brides-to-be squealed over fabric swatches, mothers haggled, bachelors shyly fingered throw pillows, pretending they were buying for their sisters. Orders flew in faster than we could stitch. Money passed through my hands, crisp and real, not imagined or begged.
And in the centre of it all, me.
The woman who had thought her life had ended in smoke now stood behind gleaming counters, workers and apprentices scurrying at her call. Sometimes I caught my reflection in the glass walls of the building and did not know her. She had a man who came to stand in her doorway, silent, tall, eyes following her as if she were the only thing Lagos had to offer.
To me, he was gentle. Always gentle. His hands never hurt, only healed and loved.
I tried to carry the pride without fear, to believe in the miracle without looking for the trick. But Lagos doesn't teach women like me to trust gifts too easily. I kept waiting for the catch. Waiting for the shadow.
And it came on a Tuesday afternoon.
I was in my office at the back, pen racing across invoices, when one of the apprentices tapped the door. "Madam, delivery man dey outside. He say na for you."
I frowned. I hadn't ordered anything. Still, I stepped out. The man was ordinary, his shirt damp with sweat, his bike parked just beyond the curb. He carried a brown paper parcel, tied neatly with twine.
"For madam Timi," he said, his voice flat.
"Yes, that's me."
He pressed it into my hands, nodded once, and left. No explanation. No receipt book. Just the parcel and the faint smell of petrol clinging to his clothes.
I took it back inside, heart ticking fast though I didn't know why. My workers kept on sewing, heads bent, scissors slicing through cloth. Nobody noticed when I shut the office door and sat with the package on my desk.
The twine cut easily. The paper fell away.
Inside was a single piece of fabric—damask, heavy, once rich with color. But now half-burnt, edges curled black, the scent of smoke still clinging to it. My breath caught. Damask. Just like the curtains that had gone up in flames in my shop. Just like the ones I had sweated to sell before the fire devoured them.
And beneath the fabric, folded neatly, was a note.
No name. No address. Just a line, scrawled in black ink:
"Ashes can burn twice."
My throat closed.
I read it once. Twice. Again, until the words blurred. My mind rushed—Raymond. It had to be him. He had come after my body, my shop, my name. Why not this? Or maybe Bose. Could this be her revenge, her madness curling back to haunt me because I beat the living daylight out of her beloved?
I pressed my palms to my desk, forcing myself steady. The room felt too small, the walls closing in. My eyes darted to the door. My workers were still out there, unaware, threading needles, folding fabric, calling customers. None of them could know the fire had walked into the shop again, quiet and smiling, hidden in brown paper.
Gregory's promise came back to me then. His hand tight on the wheel, his jaw ticking. Fine. I won't touch him. Not unless he comes near you again.
And here it was—this thing, this shadow, this parcel. Did it count as coming near me? If I showed him the note, if I handed him the burnt fabric, would he break his promise? Would he take up the fight I had begged him not to?
I couldn't risk it. Not with him. Not with us.
So I folded the note back, wrapped the burnt damask in the brown paper again, and slid it into the bottom drawer of my desk. I locked it, tucked the key into my bag, and forced my face to calm before I stepped outside.
"Madam, who send the package?" Benjamin asked casually as I passed.
"Nothing important," I lied, my smile tight. "Just fabric samples."
He nodded, satisfied, and turned back to his machine.
But I felt the lie burn my tongue.
That night, Gregory held me in his arms, his mouth tracing fire along my skin, his hands steady as if I were something fragile he alone knew how to carry. I should have told him. I should have let the words spill against his chest: *They sent me fire again, Greg. They came back.*
But I didn't. I buried my face in his shoulder, kissed him harder, as though desire could drown the terror. As though his weight pressing me into the mattress could shield me from the shadow that had found me.
He whispered against my neck, "You're safe with me."
And I nodded, eyes closed, swallowing the truth. Because safety was fragile. Safety was paper and smoke and ash, and I couldn't bear to see his fire blaze out of control again.
So I let him love me, slow at first, then faster, rougher, the sheets tangled, my nails leaving crescents in his back. I gave him my fear as fuel, turned it into gasps, into whispered pleas, into the kind of surrender that felt like control.
When I cried, he thought it was from pleasure. Maybe it was. Or maybe it was the note burning still, hidden in my drawer, waiting.
Officer, that was the first time I understood the cruel truth about light. The brighter it shines, the darker the shadows it casts. And though I locked the threat away, though I kissed Gregory as if his body could anchor me to earth, I knew the fire hadn't finished. It was only circling. Waiting. Patient.
And I—foolish, desperate, aching for love—was already bracing myself only to be burned again.