The air in Nigeria felt heavier than Amara remembered.
The heat clung to her skin as she stepped out of the airport, suitcase rolling behind her, heart weighed down by more than just jet lag. Her father's death had been sudden—just a call in the middle of the night, a few muffled words from her mother, and silence that cracked her open.
Home was supposed to bring comfort. Instead, it brought memories.
The house looked smaller now. The porch where her father used to wait for her, arms folded, smile wide—that space felt empty. Her mother hugged her tightly, too tightly, as though afraid she'd vanish again.
"I'm sorry," Amara whispered. "I should've come back sooner."
Her mother said nothing. Just nodded, eyes distant, grief etched into her bones.
---
The funeral was a blur. Black clothes. Soft prayers. A thousand unfamiliar faces offering condolences.
And then... him.
Liam.
Standing across the street, dressed in black, hands in pockets, like a ghost from a life she didn't ask to carry here.
She blinked, thinking it was grief playing tricks. But no—he stepped forward.
"What are you doing here?" she hissed, stepping away from the mourners to confront him.
"I heard. I needed to be here."
"You've done enough," she snapped, voice sharp and trembling. "You cost me everything."
"I know. And I regret it."
Amara stared at him—at the same man who had wrecked her project, ruined her job… and somehow still made her heart ache with conflicted heat.
She turned to leave, but he reached out, fingers brushing hers. "Let me be here. Not for me. For you."
She didn't answer.
But she didn't walk away either.