CHAPTER ONE
They told her it was a wedding.
She believed them. She was five. She didn't know what a funeral was, not really. All she knew was that her mother was gone, and Catherine, her aunt, had said she was going to a better place, and somehow, that sounded like a wedding to her. She wore a white dress that day. Someone had tied a ribbon in her hair. She thought she looked pretty. She waited for music. For cake. For her mother to come out and smile at her the way she used to, like she was the whole sky. But then the clouds cracked open and rain came down like the heavens were offended. The tent gave in first. The chairs flew next. Adults scattered, pulling off tablecloths, grabbing bags, shouting for each other, but no one shouted for her.
She stood by the corner of that one-roomed house, hiding under a flap of rusted roofing, trying to keep dry. The cold metal shook in the wind above her head. Her dress stuck to her legs. Her shoes were gone. Nobody noticed her. Nobody even looked. And then...she saw it. The coffin. Tipped sideways in the muddy ground. That wasn't a wedding. She didn't cry. Not then. She just stood there, watching the rain hit everything. Watching the people leave. Her mother didn't come back. No one came to carry her inside. No one told her the truth. That was the first time she realized the world could break you before you even knew how to speak up. The first time she knew what it meant to feel everything and still say nothing. And somehow, the rain didn't feel like the worst part.
She still dreams of that day sometimes. The cold iron sheets. The silence. The smell of wet earth. She never asks herself why no one came for her, she already knows. Some people just slip through the cracks early, and the world forgets to go back for them. She learned to carry her pain like that white dress- soaked, stained, and clinging to her. Even now, years later, she still wonders: If no one sees your pain, did it ever matter? She remembers. And this time, she's writing it all down…so silence doesn't win again.
Childhood was a contradictory word to her, a label that never quite fit. She never felt like a kid. Not since the day it rained. From then on, Angie was an adult in a child's body. Not by choice, but by necessity. She lived in an extended family where people were always around, but she still felt alone.
Invisible. That is, until the dishes needed washing. Or the yard needed sweeping. Or the floors, or the laundry, or the chaos someone else had caused needed cleaning. Then suddenly, everyone remembered her name. Her quiet nature only made it worse. Even when she was exhausted, even when her tiny frame was trembling from overwork or neglect, she never said a word.
Not out loud. But her mind…her mind had a lot to say. When her body began to fall apart piece by piece, her mind held itself together. It became her refuge. A secret sanctuary no one else could enter, no matter how loud the world outside got. She built herself a hidden room there-quiet, sacred, untouched.
Angie wasn't the only child. She had four siblings: George, Aaron, Collen, and Pearl. George was the eldest. Angie was the last born. But even in a house that full, each of them felt hollow in their own way. Unseen. Unheard. The absence of their mother — Grace — left a silence that no crowd could fill. Noise came and went. Chores came and went. But the ache? It stayed.
When Grace passed, George was already off to tertiary. The clever one. A proper bookworm. Aaron and Collen were still in primary school, along with Pearl. Angie stayed home, not because she wanted to, but because no one expected otherwise. Where she came from, kindergarten wasn't even a conversation. She was just a little girl. And yet, somehow, she already knew what it meant to carry more than her share.
Angie stayed in a two-bedroom house with her grandmother, Pearl, and several extended family members. They all shared the same yard, a scattered constellation of rooms and houses, but theirs was the main one. At the far end of the yard stood two small corner rooms. That's where she last remembered her mother. Probably because they had spent most of their days there together, before the world turned quiet. Whenever Angie missed her mom, she'd go back to those rooms. Not to talk. Not to cry. Just to be near whatever part of her still lingered there. It was the only place that ever came close to closure.
Next door lived her aunt Catherine. The kind of aunt no one wanted, but always seemed to be everywhere. Catherine had a twin sister, Magdaline, and both of them had children around Angie's age, Hope and Jade. Hope and Jade were inseparable. Loud. Joyful. Extroverted. They did everything together, dancing, laughing, teasing each other over nothing and everything. Their energy bounced off walls and into each other like firecrackers. Angie couldn't keep up. She'd watch them from the edge, sometimes wanting to join, sometimes not.
She'd rehearse sentences in her mind, waiting for a pause that never came. When she finally tried to speak, her voice would either get lost in the noise, or land awkwardly, followed by an "Oh...it talks?" kind of silence. Still, she loved them. So, she learned to simply be around them. Smiling when they laughed. Giggling when Jade stole snacks from Hope. Never snitching. Just... observing. Her silence became her gift. She noticed everything, the way people shifted when they lied, the flicker of a look when someone was pretending. Sometimes she could see the worst parts of people long before they acted — and they always did. Every bad energy she felt eventually revealed itself. Her sixth sense was both her shield and her curse. Especially with Aunt Catherine. That woman didn't like Angie, and Angie felt it before anyone else did. She could never quite prove it, but she knew. And so did Catherine.
After Grace died, Angie and her siblings were placed under the Orphans and Vulnerable Children program run by local social workers. They were helped with school fees, groceries, uniforms, even taken for Christmas shopping so they wouldn't look forgotten when the world was celebrating. On paper, they were supported. In reality, they were surviving. Catherine worked as a cleaner at the village Traditional Court. She was visible. Familiar. Always around the chief. Always involved in community events: Independence Day celebrations, weddings, funerals. So, to the outside world, she appeared dependable. People said Angie and her siblings were fortunate to have her after their mother's passing. But Angie wasn't so sure. She had seen things. Felt things. Things that didn't match the stories others believed. And over time, those quiet things began to matter.
Catherine loved to smile, but Angie saw right through it. The smile never stayed. The moment no one was watching, it would vanish, and in its place came a stare that made Angie's skin crawl. At first, it scared her. She'd wonder how a smile could disappear that fast. The ones she remembered, the ones her mother gave, lasted so long they made her tiny cheeks ache. But Catherine's smile was different. Even the voice she used, sweet and sing-song, felt too rehearsed, like something worn to impress, not comfort. Maybe everyone else had grown used to it. Or maybe they just didn't see it. But Angie saw. She noticed the small things. The smallest slice of meat on her plate. The thinnest ration. The way Catherine looked at her like she was always in the way, even when she was trying to help. At first, Angie made excuses. "There are so many of us, maybe it's hard to divide the food evenly." "She probably didn't realize she gave me less." The innocence in her tried to reason it all away. Tried to shrink the sharpness of her aunt's presence into something softer.
But eventually… she stopped making excuses. She trusted what she felt. And once she did, everything looked different. The world didn't change, but Angie did. The time finally came when Angie and Hope were old enough to start school. Jade went to a different school in another village, where his mother, Magdaline, worked as a teacher. Angie and Hope envied him sometimes. He had the luxury of movement, the novelty of new places, while they remained rooted in one village, in one story. But none of that mattered on the night before their first day. They couldn't sleep. They'd waited for this for so long, to finally wake up like the older kids, slip into crisp uniforms, shine their new shoes, and walk to school like they belonged to something bigger. They were only six, but their excitement was fierce and loud in their tiny hearts. When the midnight rooster crowed, they leapt from the bed, convinced it was time, only to be scolded by Granny and shoved back under the blankets. But for once, they didn't care. Not even Granny's anger could dim their joy.
Morning came… and found them fast asleep, slumped on top of the covers where they'd waited, too excited to lie down properly. Granny shook them gently, her voice soft for once. "It's time." And just like that, the day began. It wasn't everything they'd imagined, school, that is. The walk was long. Their legs were tired before they even reached the gate. But still, they didn't care. Because this was school. The buildings stood in a line, weathered but proud. The assembly ground was covered in soft blue stones that matched their uniforms. They'd never seen anything like it. But along with the wonder came something else. A strange, tight feeling in their chests. Fear. They were the smallest. The quietest. Everyone else looked like they belonged. Kids moved in pairs, in clusters, sharing fat cakes and soup from small plastic bags, whispering secrets, laughing with mouths full. Angie and Hope stood frozen, until they saw them. Twins. Tiny, just like them. New uniforms. Shiny shoes that caught the morning light like mirrors. Hope nudged Angie, and they took a few shy steps forward. They asked the twins their names. Then, curious in the way only six-year-olds can be, they asked, "Can you read each other's minds?" The twins laughed. "No," one of them said. "But we always know when the other one is lying." That was enough. They didn't need magic. They had made friends. For Angie and Hope, that was everything. Their little hearts felt full.
That was only the beginning. A beginning that would build some. Break others. And leave behind scars in places no one could see. Some friendships would grow. Others would fade. Some truths would stay buried, others would force their way to the surface. And as for Angie…
She was still learning when to smile, when to speak, and when to simply stay quiet. But deep down, a small part of her already knew, silence wouldn't protect her forever. Not from what was coming next.