The week bled slowly into itself.
Kamsi began documenting everything. Every conversation. Every look. Every discrepancy in Adaora's file. She wasn't sure why—maybe it was instinct, or maybe it was the voice in her phone, still haunting her inbox.
"She lied."
She hadn't deleted it. Couldn't. It felt like a thread she was supposed to follow, no matter how fragile or frayed.
But even more unsettling was what Chuka had said: that Adaora had asked for her by name.
That couldn't be coincidence.
Kamsi was a quiet doctor, the kind who didn't entertain popularity, who preferred long shifts to long conversations. She'd transferred to Rosehill Hospital only eight months ago, and had intentionally kept her head down. She had no social media presence, avoided hospital politics, and maintained a minimalist digital footprint.
So how did Adaora know her?
And why did she want her?
"Doctor Kamsi."
She looked up from her desk. It was the hospital's psychiatric liaison, Dr. Yawson — a blunt, always-uninvited man with a tie too loud for his own silence.
"You requested a behavioral review for one of your patients?"
"I did. Adaora Nwankwo. Room 405."
Yawson frowned as he flipped through a file he clearly hadn't read.
"She's presenting as stable. What's the concern?"
"Possible pseudocyesis. Maybe more."
"Based on?"
Kamsi leaned back. "A miscarriage she swears happened in October, her husband says November. Beta-hCG levels don't match her reported gestation. Ultrasound inconsistencies. And she's... selective with the truth."
Yawson shrugged. "That's not rare. Grief and obsession can mimic delusion."
Kamsi's voice dropped. "It's not just delusion I'm worried about. It's intent."
He raised an eyebrow.
"She's not just obsessed with pregnancy," Kamsi said. "She's performing it. She knows the symptoms, the hormones, the emotional arc. And she's weaving everyone into it."
"You think she's manipulating the system?"
"I think she's manipulating me."
That evening, Kamsi walked into Room 405 and paused.
The lighting was dim. Adaora sat by the window, wrapped in her robe, humming to herself.
"I've adjusted your prescriptions," Kamsi said softly. "And we'll be doing another scan tomorrow."
Adaora smiled faintly. "Still trying to find what's not there?"
"I'm trying to find what's real."
Adaora turned, her eyes gleaming.
"Reality is personal, Doctor. Just like pain. Just like love."
That word again.
Kamsi stepped closer. "What are you really here for?"
Adaora's smile didn't falter. "The same thing as you."
Kamsi stilled. "And what's that?"
Adaora's voice dipped to a whisper. "Closure."
After her shift, Kamsi sat in her car longer than usual, staring at nothing.
Her phone buzzed.
Blocked Number.
She answered.
Nothing. Just breath.
Then: "You treated her sister. Lagos. Three years ago."
Kamsi's blood froze.
The voice hung there like smoke.
"You don't remember... but she does."
The line went dead.
That night, she didn't sleep.
Not because of the voice. Not even because of Adaora.
But because of a memory.
Three years ago. A woman. Twenty-seven. Collapsed at a roadside pharmacy. Ectopic pregnancy. Arrived at the hospital unconscious. Kamsi had fought to keep her alive, but the rupture was too severe. She died on the table. Her name… her name was…
Kamsi sat up, heart racing.
Her name was Amara.
She pulled out Adaora's file.
Full name: Adaora Amara Nwankwo.
No.
No, not Amara. That couldn't be…
Unless Amara wasn't her first name.
Unless—
Her pulse quickened. She scanned her email inbox, then her archived case logs.
There it was.
Amara Nwankwo. Emergency patient. No next of kin listed. Only one emergency contact had answered that night… a female voice, who never showed up.
The sister.
And now she was here.
In Room 405. Wearing a fake pregnancy like a mask. Staring Kamsi down. Whispering about love. Whispering about closure.
Later, in the parking lot, Chuka found her again.
He looked worse than the day before. His eyes sunken, his hands jittery.
"I've tried to get her help," he said, voice strained. "Therapy. Faith homes. Even hypnosis. Nothing works. She builds a new lie every time. And now... she's started drawing you into it."
Kamsi's brows furrowed. "Why me?"
"I thought you'd remember her sister."
Kamsi blinked. "I don't."
"You treated her. Three years ago. She died. Tubal rupture."
Kamsi's mouth went dry. "I've had many patients like that…"
Chuka nodded. "But not many whose bodies were claimed by no one. Adaora was the emergency contact. But she came hours after burial. And she never cried. She just... stared."
That night, Kamsi didn't sleep.
She searched through her archived hospital logs. Eventually, she found it.
Amara Nwankwo. Age 27. Died of ruptured ectopic pregnancy. Admitted unconscious. No family present. No final words. Just a quiet body in a public ward.
The emergency contact listed?
A. Nwankwo.
No first name.
The next morning, Adaora was dressed before rounds.
Kamsi noticed the detail. The fresh makeup. The arranged bed. The perfume.
Adaora was preparing for something.
Or someone.
"You look rested," Kamsi said.
"I dreamt about her last night," Adaora replied calmly. "She was wearing white."
"Who?"
"My sister. Amara."
Kamsi froze.
Adaora smiled. "You see, Doctor, you do remember. Your face just told me."
In the corridor, Kamsi leaned against the wall and closed her eyes.
There it was. Confirmation.
The voice on the phone. The inconsistencies. The obsession with her. It was all connected.
And it had nothing to do with pregnancy.
This was about revenge.
When she returned to her office, there was a note under her keyboard.
Room 405 has requested an ultrasound. Patient insists she's 16 weeks. Bleeding started 3AM.
Bleeding?
There was no chart update. No nurse alert. No vitals taken.
And yet Adaora had requested the scan herself.
Kamsi grabbed her stethoscope and rushed to the room.
But the bed was empty.
Sheets folded. IV removed. Robe gone.
Kamsi ran to the radiology wing, heart thudding.
Adaora was there, lying calmly on the scanning bed. A junior radiographer stood beside her, confused.
"She said she had a standing order," he whispered. "That you signed off."
"I didn't."
Kamsi stepped forward. "Adaora, what are you doing?"
Adaora turned her head slowly.
"Isn't this what you wanted? Proof?"
Kamsi stared at her.
"There's nothing to see, is there?" she asked quietly.
Adaora's eyes gleamed.
"No. But sometimes... absence is its own evidence."
And in that moment, Kamsi realized—
This wasn't just a case. It was a performance. And she was part of the audience, perhaps even the final act.
Some wounds bleed. Others remember how.
Adaora had come for more than treatment.
She had come for reckoning.
And Kamsi? She was the stage.
That night, after all the tests were inconclusive, Kamsi sat at her desk and opened Adaora's file again. She stared at the words until they blurred.
A knock on her door. It was Nurse Elsie.
"Doctor, Room 405 is asking for you again. Says it's urgent."
Kamsi nodded slowly, not trusting her voice.
As she walked down the hallway, something in her gut twisted. This wasn't over. Not yet.
When she entered Room 405, Adaora was sitting upright, a strange light in her eyes.
"I remembered something," she said calmly.
"What?"
Adaora's eyes didn't blink. "What your face looked like that night. In Lagos. When she died."
Kamsi swallowed. "Adaora—"
"I've been trying to recreate it. Every tear. Every plea. Every moment Amara bled out while you stood there."
"I didn't stand—"
"You were too late."
Silence fell like a verdict.
Kamsi finally spoke. "What do you want from me?"
Adaora smiled.
"Exactly what you owe."
She opened the drawer beside her and pulled out a folded letter. She handed it to Kamsi without a word.
Kamsi unfolded the note with trembling fingers. It was a copy of the final medical report from Lagos. Only this one had been altered.
In red ink, someone had underlined the words: "Delayed intervention."
And beside it, scrawled in Adaora's handwriting:
"Your delay killed her."
Kamsi stepped back, heart pounding.
"I tried," she whispered.
Adaora stood now, her expression unreadable. "And now, I try. Every day. To live with what you failed to fix."
Kamsi's voice shook. "You need help, Adaora."
"And you need penance."
For a moment, they stood like that—two women in white coats, shadows of loss trailing behind them.
Then Kamsi turned and walked out, the paper still clenched in her hand, the weight of guilt finally catching up to her heels.
Adaora's whisper followed her.
"See you tomorrow, Doctor."
Back in her apartment that night, Kamsi poured herself a glass of water and sat on the floor—no lights, no distractions. Just her, the silence, and that folded letter.
She unfolded it again, staring at the crimson ink like it was still wet. Delayed intervention.
Her hands trembled.
That night in Lagos, there had been three emergencies, two doctors short, a power cut mid-surgery. She hadn't hesitated; she'd followed protocol. She'd done her best.
Hadn't she?
She pressed the letter to her chest.
Her phone buzzed. A text. No name. Just a number.
"Do you sleep better now that she doesn't?"
Kamsi's breath caught. Her fingers hovered over the screen, but she didn't reply.
She powered the phone off.
And yet… sleep didn't come.
Because somewhere in the hospital, a woman was spinning grief into gospel. And Kamsi, the unwilling priest, would have to bear witness until Adaora's twisted sermon reached its end.