The piano in the drawing room had been silent for weeks, its keys untouched, yet today it wept.
Agnes sat before it like someone seated at an altar. Her fingers hovered, unsure, then gently pressed a single note. Then another. A slow melody stumbled out of her—one she didn't remember learning, but her hands clearly did. The rhythm was fragile. Like her. But the sound, soft and melancholy, drew something from deep within her bones.
A memory.
It wasn't full. It wasn't sharp. But it hurt.
She could see a blurry image—her hand over another's. A dim eatery. Laughter. Then the crack of a gun. A rush of blood. Screaming. Cold tiles.
Agnes gasped and jerked her hands away from the keys.
"What was that?" she whispered. Her chest tightened as if mourning something she couldn't name.
Lami's voice pierced the silence. "You used to play that when we were kids. Remember?"
She turned slowly. He was leaning in the doorway, arms folded. He hadn't been there when she started. She hadn't even heard him enter. It unsettled her.
"No," she said. "I don't remember that."
"Well, I do. You were always playing something sad and dramatic." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You've always liked sadness."
She stood, brushing invisible dust from her trousers. "That doesn't sound like me."
"It was you. It still is."
Agnes walked past him without replying. Lami's gaze followed her like a hunting dog—quiet, alert, and waiting for weakness.
Majek hadn't touched real coffee in months. Instant sachets in prison didn't count. But the cup he held now, purchased from a roadside vendor near the halfway house, tasted like bitter freedom. He sat on a concrete bench, staring at nothing.
He hadn't seen Agnes since his release.
He wasn't even sure he should see her.
Her father had made it clear—Majek's continued existence in Lagos was tolerated, but not welcomed. Mr. Smith had greased legal wheels to quietly drop the attempted murder charge, citing "insufficient evidence and poor police handling." Still, Majek's reputation was stained. The tabloids had run their stories. Most people believed he had been her stalker, maybe even her attacker.
Only a few knew the truth.
He'd heard whispers—Agnes was alive. Recovering. Back at her family estate in Victoria Garden City. But she didn't remember him.
Not really.
Still, something restless burned in his chest.
He hadn't come back for revenge.
He had come back for clarity.
The SMG Conglomerate's main building rose like a blade into the Lagos skyline. Sleek, black, and full of ghosts.
Majek walked past it every day. Not because he wanted to. Because the halfway house where he was temporarily staying was two blocks away. And because some part of him, no matter how much he denied it, kept hoping he'd see her.
Agnes.
Today, that ghost finally manifested.
She was stepping out of a black SUV, a folder pressed against her chest. She looked different—slimmer, more cautious, her hair shorter. There was something in the way she moved, like someone always ready to flinch. But her eyes were awake.
Majek froze, barely breathing.
Agnes's gaze flicked in his direction—casual, almost passing. Then it locked. Her steps halted. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Recognition stirred.
Not full. Not certain. But enough.
Agnes's brows drew together. She tilted her head.
"You," she said, crossing the road toward him.
Majek stood, tense. "Agnes."
Her name fell from his lips like a prayer. A dangerous one.
"You look familiar," she said, stopping in front of him. Her voice wasn't the one he remembered—it was softer, laced with hesitation. "Do I know you?"
"You used to."
"Did we—" Her voice caught. "Were we… friends?"
The air between them thickened.
He could've lied. Could've said he was just someone from SMG, a former staffer. He could've saved her the confusion.
But he was tired of cowardice.
"We were more than friends," he said. "At least, I was hoping we would be."
Agnes blinked.
"I don't remember."
"I know," he said quietly. "It's okay."
She stared at him a long moment, then nodded slowly. "I should go. My driver's waiting."
"Wait," he said, reaching into his pocket. A tiny slip of paper—his number. "In case… in case you remember more."
She took it. Not eagerly. But not with revulsion, either.
As she walked away, Majek didn't move. He let her go.
For now.
Later that night, Agnes sat on her bed, the slip of paper in hand.
Why had she taken it?
Why had her heart ached at his voice?
The memory fragments were getting worse. Or better. Depending on who you asked. She no longer trusted her father. Or Lami. Their stories never lined up. Everyone wanted her to forget. But her mind, her body—they were starting to rebel.
She picked up her phone.
Hesitated.
Then dialed the number.
Majek nearly dropped the phone.
"Agnes?"
Her voice trembled. "I want to know everything. And I don't want anyone else around when I hear it."
He swallowed hard. "Are you sure?"
"No. But I'm tired of lies."
They agreed to meet at a public garden near Lekki Bridge—the one with the purple jacaranda trees and open benches. The one they used to walk past on company lunch breaks. Before it all went to hell.
That night, under flickering streetlamps and the rustling of dry leaves, Agnes sat across from Majek, arms folded.
"Start from the beginning," she said.
So he did.
Every word.
Every stolen glance. Every late night spent cleaning up Lami's messes. The eatery. The gun. Her blood on his shirt. The prison bars.
Tears ran down Agnes's face. Silent. Angry.
"They said you tried to kill me," she whispered.
"They said a lot of things."
Agnes stood abruptly. Her body shaking. "My father… he let this happen. He let me believe…"
"I never blamed you."
"You should have."
"No," he said, rising. "I couldn't."
Agnes turned. "I don't remember all of it. But my body does. When I saw you… something inside me recognized you. Like a scar finding its wound again."
Majek took a cautious step closer. "We don't have to rush anything. Just don't shut me out."
She didn't reply. But she didn't walk away either.
That was enough.
For now.