Before the first bird stirred in the branches of the almond tree, before any broom scraped the earth clear of yesterday's dust, Obinna opened his eyes to the dim shape of the studio door standing half open to the morning breeze. The night had been long but gentle, filled with small sounds that drifted through sleep like old songs humming behind closed eyes. He lay still for a while, listening to the quiet hum that settled over the compound when dawn balanced itself on the edge of light and shadow.
Nneka was already awake. He heard the soft splash of water in the clay basin near the back wall, the muffled pat of her feet crossing the courtyard, the quiet push of her palm against the wooden door that never quite closed all the way. She carried a bundle of cloth under her arm, her hair tied back loosely, wisps falling to brush her neck as she moved through the growing light. She did not speak when she passed him by. She only touched his shoulder lightly with her fingertips, as if to remind him that the day was waiting and they were needed to open its folded corners.
Inside the studio, the night's shadows still clung to the shelves and corners, softening the edges of old boxes, quiet folders, the small spiral of stones now surrounded by the growing cluster of things that had come to rest here. The cloth bird perched beside the tin cup had shifted slightly in the breeze, its bead wing brushing the worn wood of the shelf. The bottle of river water sat close by, a thin line of thread tied to its neck drifting down to rest on the floor.
Nneka unwrapped her bundle slowly. Inside lay three torn pieces of wrapper cloth, one deep blue, one sun-faded green, and the last a pale brown that once carried patterns now mostly washed away by soap and time. She laid them flat on the floor near the spiral, smoothing their frayed edges with careful hands. She pressed each piece down as if asking permission for it to stay.
Obinna joined her and lowered himself to the floor beside the cloth. He ran his finger along the faded lines, feeling the worn weave slip beneath his skin. Nneka did not look at him. She pressed her palm flat on the green piece and said softly that this was from a wrapper her aunt had worn when she crossed the river at dawn to carry firewood back before the sun lifted its full head. She did not say more. The cloth spoke for itself.
By midmorning, the heat had begun its slow climb. The breeze that carried the scent of wet soil turned warm against the compound walls. A boy from the next yard climbed the short fence and landed lightly inside, holding a plastic lid in his small hand. He held it out to Obinna without speaking, his eyes darting around the yard as if to make sure he would not be asked to stay. Inside the lid lay three snail shells, pale and empty, their soft spirals unbroken. Obinna asked if they were found or given. The boy only shrugged and slipped back over the fence, leaving the shells behind like a quiet riddle.
Nneka picked up the lid and placed it beside the spiral of stones, turning the shells so their openings faced upward. She said to no one in particular that even empty houses were worth keeping when they taught you how to listen for echoes.
Later that afternoon, a woman arrived with a handful of broken bangles wrapped in a corner of her scarf. She did not cross the yard fully. She stood by the gate and called out softly, her voice almost lost to the lazy hush of midday. Obinna stepped forward and she placed the bangles in his open palm, her fingers brushing his briefly before she pulled them away. She said her mother had worn them through three seasons of waiting for a promise that never arrived but the sound of them clinking together still reminded her that waiting could be beautiful if you let it stay soft.
Inside, Nneka tied a thin length of old thread through the largest bangle and hooked it gently around the edge of the cloth bird's beaded wing. She did not pull it tight. She let it rest there, a quiet weight that would not force the bird to bend.
As the sun slipped lower, painting the courtyard with long stripes of gold and shadow, Obinna sat beneath the almond tree. He held the snail shells in his hand one by one, rolling them gently between his fingers, feeling the smooth curve of each spiral. He placed them on the ground in a small circle at his feet, leaving space in the center as though something else might choose to arrive and settle there.
Nneka joined him after folding her cloth scraps into a neat pile on the low shelf inside. She sat close, her knees brushing his, her hands empty for once. She looked at the circle of shells at his feet and asked what he would place in the middle. He shook his head slowly and said nothing needed to fill it yet. Sometimes the waiting was enough to keep the circle whole.
As dusk crawled in, children's laughter echoed beyond the fence, followed by the soft clatter of a passing wheelbarrow carrying small sacks of rice. A distant radio crackled with a song about journeys that stretched far beyond the next village. The tune drifted over the compound wall, tangled itself in the branches above, and slipped softly into the spaces between their joined silence.
Inside the studio, the lamp flickered to life, throwing soft shadows across the shelves where small pieces of other people's lives leaned against one another for balance. The broken pencil lay beside the calabash, the cloth bird's wing brushed the bangles that clinked when the wind nudged them. Near the spiral, the bottle of river water caught the lamp light, bending it into soft ripples that danced across the studio floor.
Obinna swept the room slowly, his broom gathering dust and stray threads into the corner by the door. Nneka sat by the bench, her back against the wall, watching him work with eyes that held no question, no rush, only the calm of someone who knew that even small chores held the roots of stories yet to be spoken.
Before the lamps burned too low, they stepped out into the yard to let the night claim what light the day had left behind. They stood side by side under the almond tree, the small circle of snail shells at their feet, the distant hum of the village washing over the compound walls like an old lullaby.
Nneka bent and picked up one shell, turning it in her palm until it caught the soft shine of the half hidden moon above. She whispered that soft things were the ones that lasted longest if you remembered how to hold them lightly. Obinna placed his hand over hers and closed her fingers around the shell. He did not speak. He let the night carry her words, folding them into the hush that settled over the yard like a quiet promise waiting to keep them warm.