The morning came gently, golden light spilling through Adriella's curtains, painting soft lines across her bed. She lay there for a while, listening to the hum of life outside — a vendor's distant call, a car engine sputtering awake, children's laughter echoing faintly from the street.
For the first time in months, the sounds didn't feel like insults. They didn't feel like the world mocking her for still being broken. Instead, they sounded like… possibility.
She sat up slowly, her body heavy but her heart carrying a faint, flickering determination. Adaora had plans that morning, leaving Adriella alone. The thought of staying inside all day, surrounded by shadows and reminders, filled her with dread. Perhaps that was why the idea struck her: What if I try? What if I step outside, just me, without Adaora?
The thought terrified her. Her chest tightened, her palms grew damp. She hadn't gone anywhere alone since Tobi's death. The world felt too loud, too unpredictable. But somewhere inside, she remembered the line she had written in her journal the night before: Even echoes can be answered.
Maybe today, the world would answer her if she dared to ask.
She dressed in simple clothes — black jeans, a white blouse, sandals. She tied a scarf loosely around her hair, looking at herself in the mirror. Her reflection startled her; she looked thinner, older, like someone carrying too much weight. But in her eyes, there was a glimmer. Small. Almost hidden. But it was there.
She whispered to her reflection: "One step at a time."
The sun was warm on her skin when she stepped outside. The air smelled faintly of dust and fried akara from a roadside stall. She inhaled deeply, steadying herself. Her legs felt shaky at first, but she kept walking.
Her destination was simple: the little park five blocks away. Nothing extravagant. Just a test.
Along the way, she noticed details she hadn't in months — the bougainvillea spilling over a neighbor's gate, the soft cooing of pigeons on the power lines, a child dragging a bright red balloon, giggling as it bounced behind him. Each small sight tugged at her heart.
For a moment, she even smiled.
By the time she reached the park, her pulse had slowed, her breath steady. It wasn't crowded — just a few mothers watching their children play, a group of older men playing draughts under a tree, and joggers passing occasionally. Adriella found an empty bench beneath a jacaranda tree and sat, the lavender blossoms scattered at her feet.
She let herself breathe. The world felt alive around her. And for the first time in a long time, she didn't feel entirely apart from it.
Then it happened.
From across the park, a young couple strolled by, hand in hand. They were laughing, their heads bent close together, their steps easy and in sync. The boy leaned in, whispered something, and the girl threw her head back, laughing so loudly that nearby children turned to look.
The sound hit Adriella like a knife.
It was their laugh. Her and Tobi's laugh. The careless, bubbling sound of two people wrapped up in each other, believing the world could never touch them.
Her chest caved. Her breath stuttered. She pressed a hand to her sternum, as if she could hold herself together. Tears burned behind her eyes, threatening to spill.
She almost stood. Almost ran. The urge to flee surged through her body like fire. This was a mistake. I can't do this. I don't belong here. I don't belong anywhere without him.
Her vision blurred. She gripped the edge of the bench, nails digging into the wood.
But then… she looked down.
A little girl, no older than five, had toddled over, her tiny fists clutching a wilted jacaranda blossom. She looked up at Adriella with wide, curious eyes. Without a word, she held out the flower, offering it like a gift.
Adriella blinked, stunned. Her tears slipped free, but she smiled through them, shaky and broken. She took the blossom gently. "Thank you, sweetheart," she whispered, her voice raw.
The girl beamed, then skipped back to her mother, leaving Adriella clutching the small flower like it was holy.
And in that moment, something shifted.
The pain didn't vanish. The hole in her heart didn't close. But there was space alongside it — space for a smile, for gratitude, for life.
She pressed the blossom into her journal later that day, taping it carefully onto a page. Beneath it, she wrote:
"Today, the world gave me a flower when I thought I would collapse. Maybe this is how healing begins — not with loud victories, but with tiny mercies."