The morning sun sliced through the thick velvet curtains of Zenande's room, illuminating specks of dust dancing in the air. Her room, dark and untouched, had become a sanctuary of bitterness. Zenande sat motionless in her custom-made wheelchair, arms crossed, her eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling like they held the secrets of her lost joy.
Downstairs, Nokwanda moved like a whisper, cleaning with precision. The mansion was massive, yet eerily quiet, and each step she took echoed like footsteps in a cathedral. It was her third day in the house, and though she'd been officially hired by Zenande's mother, Mrs. Mthembu, she hadn't had any substantial interaction with Zenande herself.
Still, she felt her. Every time she passed the second-floor hallway, a cold wind would trail behind her, as if Zenande's emotions had seeped into the very walls.
That morning, something shifted.
"Nokwanda," Mrs. Mthembu called, her voice calm but firm. "Please take this breakfast tray to Zenande. She won't let the nurses in today."
Nokwanda hesitated. She had heard the rumors—the cruel way Zenande dismissed staff, the tantrums, the broken glasses. But a job was a job.
"Yes, ma," she said softly, lifting the tray carefully and making her way up the stairs.
The door to Zenande's room was slightly ajar. Nokwanda knocked, a gentle rap, and waited.
No answer.
She pushed the door open.
Zenande was by the window, facing away.
"I brought your breakfast," Nokwanda said, voice as gentle as a breeze.
Zenande didn't move.
"Leave it there," she muttered coldly.
Nokwanda didn't leave. "It'll get cold. And you need to eat. You haven't had anything since yesterday."
Zenande finally turned her head, eyes sharp as glass.
"I said, leave it."
Nokwanda met her eyes. "No."
Zenande blinked, caught off guard.
"No?"
"I was hired to care for you, and I will do just that. Even if you push me, insult me, or throw this tray. But you'll eat. If not for yourself, then for your body's strength."
Zenande's jaw clenched. "Who do you think you are?"
"I'm Nokwanda. And I don't scare easily."
A tense silence followed. Then, Zenande turned back toward the window.
"Suit yourself."
Nokwanda placed the tray on a side table and moved toward the bookshelf.
"You don't need to clean in here," Zenande snapped.
"I'm not. I'm choosing a book."
Zenande turned slightly. "You read?"
"Yes."
"What do you read?"
"Stories about women who fight to feel again," Nokwanda said with a soft smile.
Zenande looked away, but not before a flicker of something—recognition, maybe—crossed her face.
That night, Zenande didn't throw the tray. The food remained untouched, but the book Nokwanda left beside it—The Secret Garden—was opened.
By the end of the week, Nokwanda became a quiet fixture in Zenande's life. She didn't try too hard. She didn't talk too much. She simply existed near Zenande—watering the plants in the corner, cleaning gently, humming a tune Zenande couldn't place but found oddly comforting.
Zenande began to notice things.
The softness of Nokwanda's voice.
The strength in her hands.
The way she didn't look at her with pity, but with presence.
It terrified her.
Because Zenande felt something too.
Not the familiar anger or ache.
But something new.
Warmth.
One afternoon, as Nokwanda reached to adjust the curtains, she tripped slightly. Reflexively, Zenande reached out to steady her.
Their hands touched.
For a second too long.
Nokwanda's breath caught, but she recovered quickly. "Thanks."
Zenande didn't pull her hand back. Her eyes searched Nokwanda's face.
"You're not like the others," Zenande said finally.
"No, I'm not," Nokwanda replied.
"Why are you still here?"
"Because I see you."
Zenande blinked rapidly. "You don't know me."
"I don't have to know your past to care about your present."
Silence wrapped around them.
Zenande looked away, voice almost a whisper. "You should leave before I break you too."
"I'm not that easy to break," Nokwanda replied. "And maybe... you're not either."
That night, Zenande couldn't sleep.
She kept replaying that moment.
Their hands.
That look.
Her words.
Something inside her shifted, trembled, reached.
She had spent so long buried in pain, she had forgotten how to feel.
But Nokwanda…
She was different.
Zenande hated it.
And she loved it too.
The next morning, Nokwanda knocked again.
"You're early," Zenande said.
"I wanted to see you."
Zenande's heart thudded.
"Don't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not someone you want to see. I'm broken. Crushed. Cold. Bitter."
"No," Nokwanda replied, walking closer. "You're just hurt."
Zenande met her gaze.
For once, she didn't flinch.
"I don't believe in love anymore," Zenande whispered.
"You don't have to," Nokwanda replied. "You just have to let yourself feel."
Zenande stared at her.
Then turned away.
But Nokwanda saw it.
That tear she tried to hide.
That hope she tried to bury.
And the way her hand trembled slightly when Nokwanda brushed past her to open the curtains.
The light poured in.
Just enough to reach Zenande's cheek.
And in that golden glow, for the first time in years...
Zenande smiled.