The rain didn't stop until morning. It fell all night, drumming softly on rooftops, whispering across the fields, cleansing Edena of dust and memory. By dawn, the roads shimmered, and the mango tree stood drenched and dignified, its branches heavy with dew. Beneath it, the marks of three sets of footprints had turned into shallow pools—one that came, one that stayed, one that walked away.
Amara woke early, her mind restless. She had barely slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Tunde standing in the rain, that look in his eyes—half sorrow, half longing. It stirred something she thought she had buried long ago. Love, perhaps. Or maybe guilt. She wasn't sure anymore.
When she reached the school, whispers followed her. News in Edena traveled faster than light. Someone had seen her with the soldier. Someone else said they'd quarreled beneath the Mango Tree. Even her students stared at her differently that morning, with curious smiles they didn't understand.
She ignored it all and tried to teach. But the words on the chalkboard blurred, and her thoughts wandered back to Tunde.
Was he still in town? Would he come again?
She pressed her palm against her chest, whispering under her breath, "Focus, Amara."
---
Tunde sat at his father's old verandah that same morning, staring into space. The house was quiet, its walls cracked and its yard overgrown. Since his father's death two years earlier, no one had lived there. Coming back now felt like opening an old wound.
He rubbed his hands over his face and exhaled. He could still hear his father's last words — "Don't let pride keep you from love, Tunde. The world will test you, but home will heal you."
He hadn't understood those words then. He did now.
He'd come back for closure, maybe even peace. But seeing Amara again had undone him completely.
When his phone buzzed, he hesitated before answering. "Captain, good morning," came a familiar voice — Sergeant Umar, his closest friend from the academy.
"Morning," Tunde replied.
"You sound tired. Edena not treating you well?"
Tunde gave a dry chuckle. "Edena's fine. It's the memories that aren't."
There was a pause. "Still about her?"
Tunde didn't answer. He didn't need to. Umar sighed. "My brother, some things are worth the fight. Just be sure she's not fighting to forget you."
The line went dead, leaving Tunde staring at the phone in silence.
---
By afternoon, Amara found herself standing outside his father's gate. She hadn't planned to come—it just happened. Her feet had carried her there, as if memory knew the way better than her mind did.
She stood there for a long time, hesitating. Finally, she knocked.
Tunde appeared at the doorway, still in a plain black T-shirt, his dog tags hanging loosely on his chest. For a moment, neither spoke.
"Hi," she said quietly.
He blinked, almost unsure she was real. "You came."
"I wanted to see how you're doing," she said. "After… last night."
He smiled faintly, gesturing toward the bench on the verandah. "Come in."
The house smelled of rain and dust. A framed photo of his father hung crookedly on the wall.