MENDED PIECES - 4
838 Words
Chapter Four: Echoes and Embers
The rain had stopped by morning, but it left behind the scent of earth and renewal.
Ada woke slowly. Not refreshed, but not shattered either. It was a strange kind of in-between—like standing in a hallway between sorrow and strength, not sure which door would open next.
She stretched, groaning at the ache in her joints. Her sleep had been restless, haunted by dreams. In one of them, she was sitting at a dining table as a child, waiting for someone who never came. A man’s silhouette stood at the door, suitcase in hand, but he never turned around.
That morning, she didn’t push the memory aside. She wrote it down.
> “My father left on a Thursday.”
Just those six words in her journal. But they pulsed on the page like a heartbeat.
Campus moved on, as it always did. Students laughed in clusters, lecturers walked briskly with folders, and life continued as if Ada’s world hadn’t cracked open weeks ago.
She walked through it like a quiet observer, detached, but not invisible anymore.
Her class with Lecturer Okoro was on that afternoon. The man was stern, deliberate, but never unkind. During a group presentation, he noticed Ada’s silence again.
“Miss Ada,” he said without raising his voice, “do you agree with your group’s conclusion?”
The class turned to look at her. Her voice caught in her throat.
“I… I think their point is valid,” she said finally. “But I also think we ignore emotional impact when we focus only on data.”
Lecturer Okoro raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Interesting. Would you care to explain?”
She did. Not eloquently, but honestly. Her words stumbled but they didn’t fall flat.
When class ended, he walked past her and spoke quietly, “That voice—use it more. Silence doesn’t make you small. It just stores what the world needs.”
Ada blinked. She didn’t respond. She couldn’t. But something inside her shifted again—like light through a cracked wall.
Later that day, she met Nkechi in the cafeteria. They hadn’t talked much since Ada’s breakdown, but Nkechi had never stopped checking in.
“You’ve been writing,” Nkechi said between mouthfuls of rice.
“Yeah,” Ada replied, surprised. “How did you know?”
“You always smell like ink when you’re serious about something.”
Ada laughed. A real laugh, not the kind she used to hide pain.
They sat together in comfortable silence. Ada looked around the cafeteria. She saw Chika at a distant table, laughing with two other final-year students.
Her chest tightened—but the pain didn’t punch this time. It pressed gently, like a memory rather than a fresh wound.
That night, Ada went to the youth fellowship again.
The hall felt warmer now, more familiar. During worship, her eyes stayed closed longer. She let the words wash over her.
🎵 “You are near to the brokenhearted…” 🎵
The Small Group Leader, Dara, approached after service.
“Have you ever thought of sharing your journal entries?” she asked.
Ada shook her head quickly. “They’re too personal. Too raw.”
“Sometimes raw is what people need,” Dara replied. “Healing isn’t neat.”
Ada didn’t answer. But later that night, she copied one entry into a Word document on her laptop.
> “Some nights, I feel like I’m held together by thin thread. But somehow, I haven’t snapped. Maybe grace is softer than I thought.”
She hit save.
The next morning, Ada found herself walking a different path—towards a bungalow she had only seen once before.
Mama Efe’s house.
She knocked gently.
Mama Efe opened the door with a smile. “I was wondering when you’d come again.”
“I brought you something,” Ada said, holding out a small note.
It was her journal entry, printed neatly.
Mama Efe read it slowly, then looked at Ada.
“You’re bleeding ink. That’s a good thing. Keep writing.”
They sat again over tea. This time, Ada asked the questions.
“What did losing your husband feel like?”
Mama Efe didn’t flinch. “Like someone stole my air. But grief doesn’t steal all of you—it just hides parts. You have to go searching.”
Ada nodded. “And faith?”
Mama Efe smiled softly. “Faith is not the absence of pain. It’s believing your pain still has purpose.”
That night, Ada wrote again.
> Dear God,
I watched Chika laugh today. It didn’t break me. That surprised me. I’m not whole yet. But I’m no longer numb.
I don’t know what’s next. But I want to want again. I want to believe again.
Help me.
She placed the journal beside her and looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes still carried shadows, but now… now they also carried fire.
Small. Faint. But it was there.
An ember.
- Writer
