The next morning, the silence of Elmridge had solidified, transforming from an unsettling presence into a constant, almost palpable pressure. Ivy woke to it, a vast, echoing emptiness that seemed to amplify every creak of the old house, every rustle of the sycamore's leaves outside her window. The memory of the whispers, so faint yet so real, still clung to her, a persistent chill despite the rising heat of the Nigerian morning. Had it been a dream? A trick of her grieving mind? She couldn't be sure, and that uncertainty gnawed at her.
Downstairs, the kitchen was a cavern of cool shadows. Agnes was already there, a small, hunched figure at the ancient gas stove, stirring something in a pot. The air was thick with the scent of ogi and a faint, acrid tang Ivy couldn't place. Agnes didn't look up when Ivy entered, her movements economical and precise.
"Morning, Grandmother," Ivy offered, her voice feeling tentative in the quiet.
Agnes grunted in response, a noncommittal sound. She poured a generous ladle of the thick, steaming ogi into a bowl, placed it on the chipped Formica table, and then, without a word, slid another bowl across to Ivy. There was no warmth in the gesture, no invitation, just a simple provision.
Ivy sat down, feeling the worn cane of the chair beneath her. She picked up the spoon, stirring the ogi slowly. She remembered her mother making ogi for her when she was little, adding sugar and milk until it was sweet and comforting. This version was plain, unadulterated, a stark reminder of the differences between her two worlds.
"Did you sleep well?" Ivy asked, determined to break through the wall of silence.
Agnes finally looked up, her blue eyes, sharp and clear despite her age, fixed on Ivy. "Sleep is for the living. The dead, they rest." Her gaze lingered on Ivy, a peculiar intensity in its depth. It felt less like a grandmother looking at her granddaughter and more like a scholar studying a specimen. "You have your mother's eyes. Restless."
The comment hung in the air, loaded with unspoken history. Ivy felt a prickle of annoyance. "My mother wasn't restless, Grandmother. She was… vibrant."
Agnes simply scoffed, a dry, humorless sound. "Vibrance leads to trouble in these parts, nwa m. Ask me. I know." She stirred her ogi, her eyes dropping back to her bowl.
Ivy tried another approach. "I found an old photo album yesterday. Of Mother as a child."
Agnes's stirring paused for a beat. "Hmmph. Old things should stay put." Her tone was dismissive, yet Ivy noticed a subtle tightening around her mouth, a fleeting flicker in her eyes. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, leaving Ivy wondering if she had imagined it.
"There were some empty slots," Ivy pressed, watching her grandmother closely. "And a page with some old writing. Very faded. About sorrow and things vanishing."
Agnes's spoon clattered against the side of her bowl. She finally looked up, her gaze hardening, a glacial chill entering her blue eyes. "You should not be rummaging through things that don't concern you, Ivy. The past is like a deep well. You look too long, and it looks back at you. And sometimes, things fall in that can't be pulled out again." Her voice had dropped, becoming low and resonant, no longer just reedy. There was a warning in it, clear and unmistakable.
Ivy felt a knot tighten in her stomach. Agnes wasn't just being secretive; she was being actively defensive. "But Grandmother, I just want to understand. About Mother. About why she never talked about…"
"Some things are best left unspoken," Agnes cut her off, her voice flat, final. "What happened happened. Life goes on. You are here now. Focus on that." She pushed away her almost-full bowl, the scrape of ceramic on Formica loud in the quiet kitchen. "I have chores. There's water to be drawn from the well."
She rose stiffly and moved towards the back door, her silhouette thin and brittle against the morning light. As she passed Ivy, her hand, surprisingly strong and bony, gripped Ivy's shoulder for a moment, a touch that was more a warning than a comfort. "Some wells, Ivy, are best left alone."
Then she was gone, the back door swinging shut with a soft thud, leaving Ivy alone in the kitchen. The taste of the plain ogi felt like ash in her mouth. Agnes's words echoed in the silence, each syllable a brick in the wall she was trying to scale.
The old writing she'd found. The empty photo slots. Her mother's silence. And now, Agnes's fierce protectiveness of the past. It all swirled together, confirming what Ivy instinctively knew: her mother's reluctance to speak of Elmridge wasn't just about personal preference. It was about something hidden. Something that Agnes, with her watchful gaze and her veiled responses, was determined to keep buried.
Outside, a faint breeze rustled through the branches of the sycamore tree. For a fleeting second, Ivy thought she heard it again—that soft, almost inaudible murmur. But it quickly faded, lost to the pervasive silence, leaving her with only the lingering chill of Agnes's unwavering, almost watchful, gaze.