The house was quiet that morning, unusually so. Even the birds outside seemed to chirp more softly, as if the estate itself held its breath in the strange rhythm that had begun to form between Zenande and Nokwanda.
Nokwanda woke up earlier than usual. Sleep hadn't come easily the night before. Her mind kept returning to the brief, icy stare Zenande had given her after dinner — cold, yes, but not empty. There had been something behind those eyes. Not anger. Not disdain. Something… tangled.
She rubbed her palms together for warmth as she walked to the kitchen. Zenande's mother had given her more responsibilities since the second week — a small test, Nokwanda thought. She didn't mind. Cooking, cleaning, tidying the massive home — those were things she could do with her eyes closed. What made her nervous was the feeling that the job wasn't just about the chores anymore.
She glanced at the hallway that led to Zenande's bedroom.
Still no sound.
Still no footsteps.
Still that unsettling, addictive silence.
Nokwanda was still thinking about last night's weirdness when the housekeeper, Lindiwe, walked into the kitchen. She looked up, surprised.
"You're up early," Lindiwe said, tying her apron.
"I couldn't sleep."
"Zenande again?"
Nokwanda blinked. "What do you mean?"
Lindiwe smirked, half-joking. "You always look like you've been through a battle after you deal with her."
Nokwanda gave a shy chuckle, then turned back to the kettle.
"She's... complicated," she said softly.
"That's one way to put it," Lindiwe muttered, pouring herself coffee. "Just don't let her turn you into a shadow. That's what she does. That's what grief does."
Nokwanda frowned. "You think it's just grief?"
Lindiwe sipped. "Grief. Betrayal. Power. Money. Pride. That girl's carrying a mountain and pretending it's a purse."
Nokwanda didn't say anything. But Lindiwe's words stuck with her.
Zenande stared at the ceiling from her bed, the curtains barely letting in light. Her wheelchair sat in the corner like a silent witness to her new life — the life she hated, the life she never asked for.
She hated how the days melted together. How her mother tiptoed around her. How servants whispered and left tea at her door but never dared to knock.
Except for Nokwanda.
That girl…
Zenande didn't know whether to strangle her or stare at her. She was bold without being disrespectful, calm without being dull. She made tea without sugar — just how Zenande liked it — without ever being told. And that smile…
Zenande sat up slightly and cursed under her breath.
What the hell is happening to me?
She shouldn't care. She shouldn't be watching. But she was. Her heart did weird things when Nokwanda spoke. Even weirder things when she was quiet.
And Zenande hated it.
She wasn't some teenager having a crush. She was Zenande Mthembu. And love was dead.
Still, when she heard the soft knock at her door, her throat dried.
It opened slowly.
Nokwanda's voice came in gently. "Your mother said you might like breakfast?"
Zenande turned away from the door. "Not hungry."
There was a pause.
"Would you like some company then?"
That made Zenande pause.
Company?
No one ever asked that.
People brought her things. Doctors brought opinions. Her mother brought silence. But company?
The idea made her skin crawl and her heart leap at the same time.
"No," she said stiffly. "I'm not a child that needs babysitting."
Nokwanda stepped inside anyway, holding the tray. She placed it neatly on the bedside table. Then sat in the single armchair by the window, as if she belonged there.
Zenande looked at her from the corner of her eye. "Did I not just say no?"
"You did."
"So why are you still here?"
"Because I think you're lonelier than you pretend to be."
Zenande's breath caught in her throat. Her face flushed with heat — from rage or shame, she didn't know.
"You think you know me now?"
Nokwanda smiled gently. "No. But I'm not afraid to."
Zenande stared at her. Nokwanda stared back.
The silence that followed wasn't hostile. It was thick with something else — unspoken truths, unspoken curiosity, unspoken… wanting.
Zenande broke eye contact first.
"Whatever. Just don't talk too much."
Nokwanda leaned back in the chair, relaxing. "That I can do."
Hours passed. Zenande ate the toast. Nokwanda cleaned the bookshelf without being asked. Their only conversation was Nokwanda humming an old Miriam Makeba song and Zenande muttering, "You're off key."
When Nokwanda left the room, Zenande found herself missing the noise.
Missing her.
She cursed again, grabbing her journal from the drawer and scribbling nonsense. Anything to kill the emotions swirling in her gut.
Downstairs, Nokwanda found Zenande's mother pacing the hallway.
"How is she?" she asked.
Nokwanda hesitated. "Rude. But not unreachable."
Mrs. Mthembu studied her carefully. "You're not scared of her, are you?"
"No," Nokwanda said. "She's human. Broken, but human."
Mrs. Mthembu folded her arms. "She needs someone who won't give up."
"I won't."
"Good. Because she pushes people away. Even when she needs them."
Nokwanda smiled softly. "Some of us were born stubborn."
Mrs. Mthembu gave her a look filled with silent gratitude. "Thank you for staying."
Nokwanda nodded. But in her heart, she wasn't sure who she was staying for anymore — the job, or the woman upstairs with pain in her eyes and barbed wire around her heart.
Zenande hated crying. She especially hated crying when she couldn't explain why.
And yet, there she was, locked inside her bathroom with the tap running just loud enough to cover the faint, muffled sound of tears. Her palms pressed into the cold marble of the basin. Her eyes — usually hard and defiant — were now glassy, blurred by emotion.
She wasn't weak. She didn't do weak. But Nokwanda's words had clawed at something buried so deep she'd forgotten it was there — the desire to be seen. Not pitied. Not managed. Just… seen.
And now that someone had dared to see her, she didn't know how to deal with it.
Downstairs, Nokwanda was folding laundry when her phone buzzed. It was her cousin, Zethu.
Zethu [08:13 AM]:
Why you ghosting me, sis? You alive?
Nokwanda [08:15 AM]:
I'm working. Can't talk much.
Zethu [08:16 AM]:
You still with the rich crippled girl?
Nokwanda's jaw tightened. She deleted the message without replying.
It bothered her. Not just the word "crippled," but the way people made assumptions about Zenande's life — about her. As if losing the ability to walk made her less powerful. Less important.
Zenande was difficult, yes. But weak? Never.
Later that afternoon, Nokwanda was called to help in the study — Zenande's mother needed to sort old documents. As she helped lift a few dusty boxes, she noticed a large, faded photo album sticking out from one of the drawers.
Without thinking, she opened it.
The first photo nearly knocked the breath out of her.
It was Zenande. Younger. Standing proudly in a ballet outfit — back straight, arms curved above her head in perfect form. Confidence danced in her eyes, and joy practically spilled from the frame.
Behind her, a man and woman — her parents — clapped in the background. It must've been taken before the accident.
"You've never seen those, have you?"
Nokwanda turned sharply. Zenande's mother was watching her, gently.
"No," Nokwanda said, closing the album carefully. "She was beautiful."
"She still is," the older woman replied, smiling. "But she doesn't believe that anymore."
Nokwanda nodded slowly. "What happened to her wasn't fair."
"No. It wasn't. But neither was what came after." She sat down heavily. "Her husband left. Friends disappeared. The media had a field day. She stopped dancing. Stopped laughing."
"She's still fighting," Nokwanda said, her voice soft but sure.
Mrs. Mthembu looked at her long and hard. "You care about her."
Nokwanda froze. Her throat tightened.
"I…" she began, then sighed. "I think I'm starting to."
There was a pause.
Mrs. Mthembu didn't interrupt. She simply placed a hand gently over Nokwanda's and said, "Then don't stop."
That night, Zenande didn't come to dinner. Again.
Nokwanda took a tray upstairs, knowing she might be turned away. But something pulled her forward.
She knocked softly.
"Go away," Zenande's voice snapped from the other side.
"I brought food."
"I said go away!"
But Nokwanda opened the door anyway.
Zenande was by the window in her chair, staring out into the darkness. Her hair was loose, cascading over her shoulders, a stark contrast to the usual stiff, elegant styles she wore. She looked… tired. Raw. Human.
"You don't listen," she murmured.
"No," Nokwanda said, walking in. "I don't."
Zenande's eyes flicked toward her. "Why are you still here?"
Nokwanda sat down on the bed, placing the tray beside her. "Because I see you. And I think you need someone who won't give up just because you tell them to."
Zenande swallowed hard.
"Stop doing that," she whispered.
"Doing what?"
"Looking at me like I matter."
"You do."
Zenande looked away. "You don't know what I've done. Who I've become."
"Maybe not," Nokwanda said, her voice firm. "But I see the girl in the photo downstairs. And I see the woman in front of me. Both of them are worth staying for."
Zenande's lip trembled.
"Stop," she said again. But her voice was shaking now.
Nokwanda stood and walked over slowly, kneeling in front of her. "Zenande."
Their eyes locked. The air between them thickened.
For the first time in years, Zenande let her mask slip.
"I'm scared," she admitted. "I'm scared I'll never be enough again."
Nokwanda took her hand gently. "You don't have to be what you were. Just be real with me."
Zenande leaned forward slightly, her forehead resting against Nokwanda's.
"I don't know how to feel," she whispered.
"It's okay," Nokwanda replied. "Feel whatever comes."
They stayed like that for a long time. No words. Just breath and silence. Just presence.
The following morning, the house felt different. Warmer. Less like a palace and more like a place someone could actually live.
Nokwanda hummed softly while preparing breakfast, her fingers moving gracefully as if her heart had finally found rhythm.
Zenande hadn't said much when they parted the night before, but the silence between them had softened — shifted into something tender, something careful. Something real.
Upstairs, Zenande stared at her reflection.
No makeup. No fancy robe. Just her, in a plain cotton T-shirt, legs covered in a throw blanket. Her wheelchair positioned near the balcony where the breeze rolled in.
She didn't recognize herself — not in a bad way, but in the way someone might meet an old version of themselves after years apart.
There was vulnerability in her chest. But for once, it didn't feel like a weakness.
She heard the soft knock.
"It's open," she called out.
Nokwanda entered, tray in hand, smile tucked carefully behind her lips. "Morning."
Zenande tilted her head. "You always hum that same song."
Nokwanda paused. "It's the lullaby my grandmother used to sing. For strength. When life was hard."
Zenande nodded slowly, accepting the tray. "It's… nice."
"Want me to sing it one day?" Nokwanda teased gently.
Zenande's lips curved. "Maybe."
Later, Zenande sat in the garden, watching the birds dart through the trees. She didn't often come out anymore, but something about the day — or Nokwanda — made her want to breathe it in.
Nokwanda sat on the grass nearby, sketching in a notebook.
"What are you drawing?" Zenande asked.
"Nothing, really. Just what I feel."
Zenande looked intrigued. "May I see?"
Nokwanda hesitated before flipping the book around.
Zenande was stunned.
It was her. Her silhouette in the wheelchair, hair wild, eyes fierce. But the way Nokwanda had drawn her — she looked… powerful. Like a queen on a throne, not a woman trapped by her body.
"You drew me like that?"
Nokwanda smiled. "That's how I see you."
Zenande blinked rapidly, fighting a sting behind her eyes. "You really don't see the broken parts, do you?"
"I see them," Nokwanda said softly. "But they're not the only parts."
That evening, Zenande joined her family for dinner for the first time in months. Her father blinked twice in surprise. Her mother smiled, full and proud. The staff looked shocked.
Nokwanda remained quiet, serving dishes, but her heart beat wildly.
Zenande's presence wasn't loud — it didn't need to be. Just her sitting there, engaging, laughing softly — it was like watching a storm slowly give way to sunlight.
After dinner, her father gently asked, "Are you feeling better?"
Zenande paused, glancing at Nokwanda across the room.
"I think I'm learning how to feel again," she said.
Her mother's eyes welled with quiet gratitude.
That night, they met in the hallway. Nokwanda was returning towels to the linen cupboard. Zenande was just rolling past, hair loose, a faint shimmer in her eyes.
"You did well tonight," Nokwanda said, her voice low.
Zenande chuckled. "You act like it was a marathon."
"Emotionally, it was."
Zenande hesitated. "You give me too much credit."
"No," Nokwanda said, stepping closer. "I don't give you enough. You're braver than anyone I've ever met."
Their eyes locked again.
"Why are you doing this?" Zenande whispered.
"Doing what?"
"Caring."
Nokwanda swallowed. "Because I want to."
Zenande looked away. "You don't even know what you're getting into."
Nokwanda took her hand gently. "Then tell me. Teach me. Let me be here."
Zenande opened her mouth — to protest, maybe, or to warn — but the words never came.
Instead, she leaned forward, slowly.
Nokwanda's breath caught, but she didn't move away.
Their foreheads touched.
Not a kiss.
Not yet.
Just a promise.
The next day, the world crashed back.
Zenande's ex-husband, Mvelo, appeared.
Unannounced.
His sleek black BMW rolled into the driveway like a curse returning to claim its throne. Zenande, from the upstairs window, froze when she saw him step out, dressed in his signature arrogance — expensive suit, polished watch, and a grin as hollow as ever.
Nokwanda felt it too. Something shifted in the air.
He walked in like he still owned the house.
Zenande met him in the lounge, with Nokwanda nearby, pretending to dust.
"Mvelo," she said coldly.
"Zenande," he purred. "You look…"
"Finish that sentence carefully."
He smirked. "I heard from mutuals you've been… social again. Smiling. Laughing. It made me curious."
Zenande folded her arms. "Curious enough to show up uninvited?"
"I was your husband once."
"You left when I needed you most."
"I made a mistake," he said smoothly. "I was young. Scared."
"You were a coward."
His jaw tightened.
Nokwanda clenched her cloth tighter.
"I came to say I regret it," Mvelo said. "And… to see if there's space to reconnect."
Zenande burst into laughter.
"Mvelo, let me be clear. The only thing you're reconnecting with is the door."
He blinked.
"I'm healing," she continued. "I'm learning how to feel again. And I won't let the person who broke me be part of that journey."
"I see," he said coldly. "Is it the new servant? She's got a bit of fire in her eyes."
Zenande stood.
"Leave," she ordered.
"You don't tell me—"
"I said leave!"
Her voice shook the room.
Mvelo looked stunned — not used to resistance. Especially not from her.
He muttered something under his breath and stormed out.
Nokwanda emerged from the shadows.
Zenande turned to her.
"I won't apologize for that."
"You shouldn't," Nokwanda said. "He doesn't deserve your breath."
They stared at each other.
"I'm glad you were there," Zenande whispered.
"I'll always be where you need me."
Zenande remained in her room, her window slightly open to let in the fresh scent of the jacaranda trees blooming in the garden below. It was her favorite time of the year, but not even nature's beauty could soothe the unease that had settled inside her. She had caught herself listening for Nokwanda's voice more times than she was willing to admit.
And now… she had done something she hadn't done in months.
She had gotten out of bed on her own.
Even if it was just a few shaky steps with her crutches, she had moved. It was Nokwanda's presence, her steady words, her fearless eyes that made Zenande want to be more than a ghost trapped inside this house.
But she would never say that aloud.
"Miss Mthembu?" Nokwanda's voice came softly from the hallway, followed by a knock. "Your lunch is ready."
Zenande cleared her throat. "Leave it outside."
There was a pause.
"I know you haven't eaten today," Nokwanda added. "I could bring it in… just five minutes."
Zenande closed her eyes. Damn her. That voice — gentle, firm, impossible to ignore. "Fine," she said sharply. "But don't hover."
When Nokwanda entered, she had a tray balanced expertly in her hands and a small frown on her face. "You look pale," she noted, setting the food on the table beside Zenande. "And your lips are dry."
Zenande rolled her eyes. "Are you here to diagnose or serve?"
Nokwanda chuckled softly. "Why not both?"
She handed Zenande a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and their fingers brushed — just for a second — but it was enough. Enough to make Zenande's throat tighten and Nokwanda's eyes linger longer than they should.
"Why do you do this?" Zenande asked abruptly, breaking the silence.
"Do what?"
"Care. Talk to me like I'm human. Most servants barely make eye contact."
Nokwanda straightened. "Because you are human. And I'm not most people."
Zenande took a slow sip, hiding the tremor in her hands. "That's clear."
They sat in silence for a moment. A strange, heavy silence that was not uncomfortable, just full of words neither of them had the courage to speak.
"I saw you walking today," Nokwanda finally said. "With your crutches. That was brave."
Zenande looked up sharply. "You were spying?"
"I was passing by," Nokwanda corrected. "But it made me proud."
Zenande scoffed, her mask slipping back in place. "Don't do that. Don't talk to me like you care."
"I do care," Nokwanda said softly. "Even if you don't want me to."
That struck something deep in Zenande — a place she had buried so well. It was terrifying. And wonderful. And dangerous.
She stood abruptly, wincing from the effort. "Get out."
"Zenande—"
"I said get out!" Her voice cracked — not with anger, but with something far more fragile.
Nokwanda didn't argue. She placed the tray down, nodded once, and left the room silently.
Zenande sank back into her chair, tears burning behind her eyes.
"Damn you, Nokwanda," she whispered. "Why are you making me feel again?"
The next few days passed like the calm before a storm.
Nokwanda kept her distance, no longer bringing Zenande's meals directly, but still checking on her from afar. Zenande noticed every quiet footstep, every sigh, every time Nokwanda paused outside her door — but she said nothing. Pride was louder than pain. Most of the time.
But late at night, Zenande couldn't sleep. Her chest felt too full. Her mind kept replaying the way Nokwanda had looked at her — not with pity, but with some kind of unshakable hope.
She hated it.
She needed it.
One afternoon, Zenande wheeled herself slowly down the hallway toward the sunroom — a place she hadn't visited since her accident. Her mother was in the kitchen with Nokwanda, laughing. That sound — her mother laughing — was something rare.
Zenande paused just around the corner, listening.
"You're a miracle worker," her mother said warmly. "I've never seen Zenande try this hard to walk since the accident."
Nokwanda's voice came soft but certain. "She has the strength. She just forgot it for a while."
"Maybe it's you who reminded her."
There was silence, then Nokwanda's voice again — lower this time. "If I did, I'm glad. But she still doesn't want me near her."
"You've done more than anyone else," her mother said. "Don't give up on her."
Zenande didn't wait to hear more. Her chest ached with emotions she couldn't name — jealousy, shame, longing. She wheeled herself back into her room quickly and slammed the door shut.
But later that evening, it was she who called Nokwanda.
"I want to walk," she said stiffly. "More than just a few steps."
Nokwanda didn't hesitate. "Okay. Let's start now."
And just like that, they began. Day after day, Nokwanda helping Zenande rise from the chair, guiding her steps with calm encouragement, catching her when she stumbled, celebrating her smallest victories like they were miracles.
Their bond grew in the quiet — in shared effort, silent support, and stolen glances. Nokwanda never pushed. Zenande never admitted how much she looked forward to every touch, every breathless laugh when she made it across the room, every moment Nokwanda looked at her like she was whole.
One night, after an especially hard session, Zenande collapsed on her bed, sweaty and sore. Nokwanda handed her a towel and a bottle of water, sitting on the edge of the mattress like she belonged there.
"You're improving fast," she said gently.
Zenande nodded. "Because of you."
Their eyes locked. The room felt small. Too small for the emotions swirling in the air.
"I—" Zenande started, then stopped. Her throat tightened. "I've never... felt this way before."
Nokwanda's breath hitched. "Zenande…"
"I don't want to be broken anymore," she whispered. "But I'm scared. Of everything. Of this. Of you."
"I'm not here to hurt you," Nokwanda said, voice firm. "But I won't lie. I feel something too."
Zenande looked away. "Don't say that."
"Why not?"
"Because I might believe you."
Nokwanda reached out, gently brushing Zenande's hand. "Then believe me."
And for the first time in a long time, Zenande didn't pull away.