Adaora stirred awake, blinking at the soft glow seeping through the curtains. She lay still for a long time, waiting for the weight of grief to descend the way it usually did, heavy and suffocating. But today, something was different. Her chest felt… lighter. Not free, not whole—but lighter. As if the storm had retreated for a moment and left her in a fragile calm.
She stretched slowly, testing the air, half-expecting her heart to betray her. When it didn't, she swung her legs over the bed and stood. At the mirror, she caught her reflection—the woman staring back at her still carried shadows under her eyes, but her face wasn't as hollow as before. She thought back to Chapter Three, when she could hardly look at herself without crumbling. Today, she held her own gaze for a full minute before glancing away. That, in itself, felt like a victory.
She brewed tea, the steam curling upward like a soft sigh. Without realizing it, she hummed faintly. The sound startled her. She hadn't made music in months. It was such a small, almost accidental thing, but it lingered in the air like a promise.
When Adriella arrived, bright-eyed and insistent as always, Adaora surprised herself by agreeing to go to the market. It had been weeks since she last ventured that far, weeks of hiding behind walls, of watching life only through the safe filter of her window. But something in her—maybe the memory of the jacaranda blossoms, maybe the words she had written in her journal the night before—pushed her to say yes.
The market was a world of its own, alive with color and sound. Vendors called out their prices in sing-song voices, laughter rippled through groups of women bargaining for vegetables, and children wove between stalls, sticky fingers clutching roasted corn.
At first, Adaora's chest tightened at the chaos. But as she moved slowly between the stalls, she realized she wasn't shrinking from it. She was here, in it. She reached for mangoes, felt the smooth weight of them in her palms, and inhaled their sweetness. She brushed her fingertips over rough baskets of yam, inhaled the sharp scent of pepper piled in woven trays.
It was almost comforting—the ordinariness of it.
Adriella haggled with a fish seller, her voice rising in mock outrage. Adaora stood a little apart, watching her friend argue playfully, and for a fleeting second, she smiled. Really smiled, not the ghostly imitation she had been wearing. It startled her, the way it stretched muscles she had forgotten how to use.
For the first time in months, she thought: Maybe I can survive this.
Then it happened.
From a stall across the way, an old radio crackled, static giving way to music. The tune drifted into the air, casual and uninvited.
Adaora froze.
The first notes struck like lightning. She knew this song. She could never forget it.
It was their song.
The one Tobi used to hum while cooking, spatula in hand, teasing her until she joined in. The one he had played the night rain fell hard against their windows, when they danced barefoot in the kitchen, laughing until their sides hurt. The one he whispered to her under his breath when she doubted herself, pulling her back into the warmth of his love.
The song carried all of it back at once.
The market blurred. The laughter, the bargaining voices, the bright colors of peppers and fabrics—all of it faded. All she could hear was the song, wrapping itself around her like a cruel embrace.
Her throat tightened, her chest cracked open.
It was too much.
Suddenly she wasn't in the market anymore. She was back in their old living room, rain streaking the windows, his arms around her waist. She could feel his heartbeat, steady and close. She could hear his off-key voice singing into her ear, her laughter spilling over it.
But the memory fractured, cruelly. Because she remembered, too, how it ended. His back walking away. The silence he left behind. The emptiness in her bed.
Her knees buckled. She clutched a wooden post for balance, pressing her free hand to her chest as if she could hold her heart together. Tears filled her eyes, spilling hot and unstoppable down her cheeks.
Adriella's voice cut through the fog. "Adaora? Ada!"
She couldn't answer. Her lips trembled, but no words came.
Adriella reached her in seconds, grabbing her arm, anchoring her. She followed Adaora's gaze, her eyes narrowing when she heard the song. Her face softened with understanding.
"Oh, Ada…"
Adaora shook her head violently, her voice breaking when it finally came. "I thought I was okay. I thought I was getting better." She choked, her body trembling. "But I'm not. I'm still broken. One song and I'm right back where I started."
She collapsed into Adriella's arms, sobs wracking her body, harsh and raw. Shoppers glanced curiously, some whispering, but Adriella glared them into silence as she shielded Adaora with her body.
"You're not broken," Adriella whispered firmly, stroking her back. "You're healing. This—" she gestured toward the music, the tears, the collapse "—this doesn't erase everything you've survived. It's just part of it."
Adaora shook her head, but Adriella held her tighter.
"You stood here today. You walked into the market. You smiled. Don't let this song convince you none of that mattered. You're not at the beginning again. You're further than you think."
The words burrowed through Adaora's sobs. She wanted to reject them, but a part of her knew Adriella was right. Maybe healing wasn't about never breaking down again. Maybe it was about breaking and still choosing to rise afterward.
The song finally ended. The silence it left behind rang in her ears, almost merciful. Adaora's tears slowed, though her body still trembled. She leaned into Adriella's embrace, drained but breathing.
When she finally lifted her head, she whispered, "It hurts so much. How does it still hurt this much?"
Adriella brushed the damp hair from her forehead. "Because love leaves echoes. But one day, Ada, the echo won't tear you apart. It'll just be a memory. And you'll breathe through it without breaking."
Adaora wanted to believe her. She wasn't sure she could yet. But as they walked home, hand in hand, she noticed something surprising: she hadn't run. She hadn't hidden. The song had pierced her, yes, but she had faced it.
And maybe that was a step, however small.
By the time they reached her apartment, she was exhausted. She collapsed onto her couch, staring at the ceiling, the ghost of the melody still circling in her head. It still hurt, but there was also a flicker of defiance.
The song had broken her, yes. But it hadn't destroyed her.
And that, she realized through tear-streaked eyes, was enough—for today.