The house was too quiet for a place that felt so large.
Sandra stood in the center of the living room, still holding the sealed brown file pressed against her chest like a shield. Her shoes made soft taps on the polished black tile. The silence pressed against her eardrums.
A maid had opened the door.
But no one else had appeared.
James Mugeni was not home.
And yet everything in the house… felt like him.
Sharp. Silent. Heavy with untold things.
The kind of silence that doesn't feel peaceful — it feels watched.
Sandra looked at the white envelope still sticking out of her handbag. It was the one she found yesterday at the office — filled with the exact amount of money her mother needed for Junior's medication.
She hadn't said thank you.
She didn't know if she ever would.
She looked around.
The house didn't feel rich in a noisy way. No golden chandeliers. No imported carpets. It was clean, modern, still. Grey walls. Steel-framed shelves. Dark wooden furniture. Sparse.
But there were books.
Notebooks stacked in one corner.
Business books.
Ugandan law books.
And—she blinked—two old copies of Bukedde. Folded, tucked into a leather tray like they had meaning.
Why would a billionaire CEO keep newspaper pages from 2010?
She moved closer.
One was yellowing. The top headline read:
> "Boy, 17, survives Mbale mudslide—family dead in freak storm."
She stopped breathing.
That year again.
2010.
Mbale.
Her mind took her back. A memory she never liked touching.
That storm.
The one that destroyed four homes in her grandfather's village. The one that made them sleep with buckets near the beds. That night they took shelter with strangers who had nothing but offered firewood, matoke, and space on the floor.
She remembered the boy.
Shivering. Barely speaking.
She had offered him her old pink umbrella.
He hadn't even said thank you.
He just stared at it like it was magic.
Sandra turned away from the tray quickly and sat down on the edge of the nearest couch. She didn't know why she was suddenly cold.
The maid returned with a glass of passion juice.
"Sir will be home shortly," she said, bowing slightly.
"Did… did he ask me to stay?"
The maid gave a small, tight smile. "Dinner was prepared for two."
Sandra blinked.
Before she could speak again, the door clicked open.
And he walked in.
James Mugeni stepped into his house with his usual silence. No car beep. No keys fumbled. Just one smooth entrance, his presence as sharp as the wind before rain.
Sandra stood.
Her pulse jumped.
He stopped when he saw her. His eyes scanned the room once. Then landed on her face.
"You came," he said.
"You asked."
He walked slowly toward the living room, removing his blazer and folding it over his arm.
"I didn't expect you to stay."
"Shinta said—"
He cut her off with a low voice.
"Did she now?"
Sandra looked at him. "She said you asked for dinner."
He didn't reply.
Instead, he walked to the bookshelf. Touched the old newspapers. Didn't pick them up. Just… tapped the corner of the tray once. Then turned back to her.
"Are you hungry?"
She nodded.
But the answer wasn't about food.
The dining table was small for a man like James. Not the long, ten-seat kind you'd find in mansions. Just four seats. Intimate. Practical.
Dinner was already served: grilled chicken, Irish, steamed vegetables. Simple, precise, plated like someone who didn't believe in unnecessary things.
They sat in silence for a full minute.
Then he asked: "Do you cook?"
Sandra smiled slightly. "Every day."
"Why?"
"My mum works twelve hours. My brother is sick. And the gas vendor doesn't like our landlord."
James made a sound like a chuckle—but not quite.
"You sound like someone who's used to fixing things."
She paused.
"I don't fix things. I survive them."
He looked at her.
That look again.
Like he was trying to unpeel her with his eyes.
After dinner, she stood up to help clear.
But the maid appeared, quietly shook her head, and took the dishes.
Sandra turned to leave.
"Wait," James said.
She stopped at the hallway.
He was still seated, but now leaning forward, elbows on the table.
Then came the question.
Soft.
Measured.
Deadly.
"Where did you grow up?"
Sandra froze.
She didn't like talking about it.
But she answered anyway.
"Kabwangasi. Near Mbale. My mum moved us to Kampala later."
James sat still.
Silent.
Sandra walked slowly back into the room.
"You knew that already, didn't you?"
He didn't blink.
"I thought I did. Now I'm sure."
He stood.
Walked to the wall shelf. Opened a drawer.
Pulled out a small pink umbrella.
Sandra's heart stopped.
"Where did you get that?" she whispered.
He looked at her.
"You gave it to me. Fourteen years ago. During the storm."
She pressed her fingers to her lips.
"I thought you were a ghost," she said softly. "You didn't talk."
He stepped closer.
"I didn't have to. You were the only one who didn't ask me questions. You just gave me shelter."
He paused.
"And now, you're back. In my building. In my elevator. Like a second storm I never saw coming."
Sandra's eyes blurred with tears.
"I didn't think you remembered."
James's voice was low.
"I never forgot."
Silence.
Heavy, thick, warm silence.
They stood close.
The storm from the past had returned—not as rain, but as something else.
Then, softly:
"I never got to say thank you," he said.
"You just did," she whispered.
He raised a hand—gently, slowly—and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
She didn't move.
But her breath caught.
And her hands trembled.
A phone rang.
Loud.
Sharp.
James stepped back like something had burned him.
He answered.
"Yes."
His jaw clenched.
"I told you not to—"
A pause.
His voice dropped.
"Fine. I'm coming."
He hung up.
Looked at Sandra.
"I have to go."
She nodded.
But something had already changed.
He walked out.
She stayed behind, breathing hard.
The past wasn't gone.
It had just been waiting.