The sound of rain tapping on the enormous windows echoed through the silent hallway of the Mthembu mansion. Nokwanda stood in the kitchen, wiping her hands after washing the breakfast dishes. The house was always clean, always cold, and always quiet, except for the sharp voice of MaDlamini, Zenande's mother, echoing commands now and then.
But today, there was a strange stillness—one that settled deep inside Nokwanda's bones.
She turned toward the hallway that led to Zenande's wing, hesitating for a moment. She wasn't supposed to go there unless called. The last time she had, Zenande had accused her of being too nosy and desperate for attention. But Nokwanda had also caught something that day: a flicker of longing in Zenande's eyes. A moment when her voice trembled—not with anger, but fear.
Nokwanda hadn't forgotten it.
Zenande lay in her bed, her back to the door, watching the greyness of the clouds roll across the sky. She didn't cry anymore. Crying was for those who still had hope. She had burned hers down the day her husband walked out of her hospital room without a backward glance. The man who once promised her forever couldn't handle her silence, her chair, or her scars.
A knock on the door.
"Go away," Zenande said flatly.
"It's Nokwanda," came the soft reply.
Zenande hesitated. Then: "I didn't ask for anything."
"I brought tea. And... some books."
Silence. Then: "Books?"
Nokwanda entered, placing the tray on the bedside table. Zenande turned slowly to face her, her long lashes hiding the storm behind her eyes.
"What makes you think I want to read?" Zenande snapped.
Nokwanda met her gaze steadily. "Because you stare at nothing all day. I thought a story might help you stare into something instead."
Zenande's lips twitched. "A philosopher now?"
Nokwanda smiled. "No. Just someone who sees you."
Zenande looked away. That sentence—someone who sees you—cut deeper than Nokwanda could ever know.
The silence between them stretched as Nokwanda moved about the room, pretending to straighten things that were already neat. Zenande watched her from the corner of her eye, refusing to ask why the scent of Nokwanda's skin — lavender and soft earth — made her throat tighten.
"You don't talk like a servant," Zenande said suddenly.
Nokwanda paused, her back still turned. "Is that supposed to be a compliment or an accusation?"
Zenande shrugged. "Most people in this house lower their eyes. You don't."
Nokwanda finally turned, crossing her arms. "I wasn't born to look down, Zenande. I was born to live. Just like you. Even if life tried to trap us both in different cages."
Zenande blinked. The words hit her like a slap. "Is that what you think I am? Trapped?"
"I know you are."
A flicker of something dangerous passed through Zenande's gaze. "Be careful, Nokwanda. People who think they know me usually end up thrown out of this house."
Nokwanda smiled sadly. "Then maybe it's time someone stayed."
Later that afternoon, Zenande sat alone with the books Nokwanda had brought — all women-centered stories of strength, resistance, and healing. She flipped through a novel she didn't even intend to read, but paused at the dedication page:
For the women who were never allowed to scream, but kept breathing anyway.
She closed the book and stared at the ceiling, remembering a time when she used to laugh so loudly the maids would giggle outside her room. When her legs would carry her across oceans if they had to. When she believed love was soft.
Then came the accident. The betrayal. The silence.
She hadn't laughed since.
Until Nokwanda.
No, not laughed — not yet. But Zenande had felt something again. And that scared her more than anything.
In the kitchen, Nokwanda sat on the cold floor, back against the cupboard. She closed her eyes, letting the quietness settle. She was falling — not all at once, but slowly. Painfully. She hated Zenande's rudeness, but she also saw through it. The cruelest words came from the loneliest hearts. She could see it in Zenande's hands — always clenched, like she was bracing for impact.
Nokwanda wanted to hold those hands and tell her she wasn't alone.
But she was just a servant, wasn't she?
Still… she wanted Zenande to see her. Not as help. Not as a charity case. But as a woman.
A woman who could love her.
That night, thunder cracked over the Mthembu estate. Rain battered the windows like it was trying to claw its way inside. The storm seemed to mirror the chaos swirling within Zenande.
She couldn't sleep.
Not because of the pain in her legs — that had become her constant companion. No. Tonight, it was Nokwanda's voice that echoed in her mind.
"Maybe it's time someone stayed."
No one ever stayed. Not when she was rich. Not when she was broken. Her husband had married her for her surname, then left her when she needed him most. Her friends disappeared faster than the blood dried on her hospital sheets. Even her mother — a fierce woman, proud and cold — never hugged her after the accident. Just told her to "toughen up."
But Nokwanda... she looked at her like she mattered. Even when Zenande was at her worst.
The door creaked.
Zenande sat upright in her bed, her heart racing — not from fear, but from something far more dangerous.
"Nokwanda?" her voice cracked.
The young woman stepped in with a glass of water. "I thought you might be awake."
Zenande blinked. "You shouldn't be here."
"And yet here I am."
They stared at each other — two women from two worlds, tethered by an invisible thread neither of them dared name.
Nokwanda stepped forward and placed the glass on the nightstand. She didn't leave.
Zenande's voice lowered. "Why do you keep looking at me like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like I'm something soft… something beautiful. I'm not. I'm angry. I'm damaged."
"You're human," Nokwanda whispered. "And I'm not afraid of your damage."
Zenande's eyes welled with tears, but she quickly blinked them away. "You should be."
"I've seen worse. I've survived worse. And I've loved people who never deserved it. But you — you're worth it. Even when you pretend not to be."
For a moment, Zenande forgot she couldn't walk. She forgot the pity, the pain, the betrayal. All she saw was a woman brave enough to walk through her storm.
"I don't know how to be loved anymore," Zenande confessed, her voice shaking.
Nokwanda knelt beside the bed. "Then let me show you. When you're ready."
Silence.
Then Zenande did something she hadn't done in years.
She reached out… and held Nokwanda's hand.