A burning Rose

I woke up staring at a ceiling that looked like it belonged in a prison. Or a morgue. Or both. It was white—too white. The kind of white that screamed “you’re not supposed to be comfortable here.” I tried to move, but my head said no. Loudly. Rudely. Pain bloomed behind my eyes. My mouth was dry. My throat felt like I’d been swallowing sandpaper for sport. Then I heard them. Voices. Two women talking just outside the room. Laughing, even. I tried to make sense of what they were saying, but the words made no sense. Like... gibberish. Like... were they speaking in tongues? What in the Pentecostal panic is this? I blinked, once, twice. Everything was hazy. Sterile white walls. Tubes in my arms. Machines beeping like I was in some sci-fi movie where the alien wakes up in a lab and doesn't know she's an alien yet. Except, I wasn’t an alien. I was... wait. Wait. Who was I? I reached for a name. Nothing. A face. A memory. Anything. Still nothing. That’s when panic curled up next to me in bed like a clingy ex and whispered, “you’re screwed.” The door creaked open and one of the nurses walked in, clipboard in hand. She was smiling. Calm. Speaking softly in that same unfamiliar language. I stared at her like a toddler watching calculus on a blackboard. “I... don’t understand.” She tilted her head and repeated herself, gentler this time. I wanted to scream “Try English, lady, I’m barely hanging on here!” but all I managed was a raspy cough. She must have understood something though, because she brought a cup of water to my lips. I drank. Gratefully. My voice came back as a whisper. “Where... am I?” The word “hospital” came through—thickly accented—but I caught it. Great. I was in a hospital. In a country where people spoke in Morse code and no one thought to give me subtitles. The nurse patted my arm and walked out. And I was alone. Again. For a while, it was just me and the beeping machines and the terrifying silence in my brain. And then—footsteps. Confident. Sharp. Expensive-sounding. The kind of footsteps made by someone who’s used to being followed, photographed, or obeyed. The door opened. He stepped in. Tall. Brooding. In a black shirt that probably cost more than this entire hospital wing. Sunglasses indoors? Red flag number one. Arrogant posture—red flag number two. A face that looked carved from stone and regret—yeah, triple threat. He looked at me like I was a problem he didn’t remember ordering. Then he spoke. In English, finally. “Shit.” ...Well. At least we were on the same page. CUT TO: Feddie – Just Outside the Hospital Feddie stormed past the automatic doors like they’d offended him. The Nairobi sun hit his face, but he didn’t flinch. He stopped near his car—sleek, black, too clean for a man who looked like he hadn’t slept. He leaned against the hood, jaw clenched, fists in his pockets like they were holding something back. “¿Qué demonios se supone que haga con ella?” he muttered, eyes on the ground. What the hell was he supposed to do with her? This wasn’t the kind of mess he could pay to disappear. Not this time. Not with witnesses. Not with her. He exhaled hard and glanced at the hospital doors. There was too much at stake already. The deal in Madrid. The client in Lagos. The call he kept avoiding from someone who didn't tolerate delays—especially not the kind that involved hospitals and mystery girls. His phone buzzed. Isabel. “Where are you?” He stared at the screen. Deleted the message without replying. The longer he stood there, the louder the silence in his head got. He turned to get into the car—paused—and looked back at the hospital. Then, under his breath, almost like a warning: “This isn’t my life.” And yet... he didn’t drive off. Morning came slowly, like it was tiptoeing around me, afraid I might wake up and scream. Spoiler: I didn’t scream. I just blinked at the ceiling like it had wronged me personally. The room hadn’t changed. Still white. Still too bright. Still giving “budget heaven” vibes. Then came the footsteps. Softer this time. Playful. The door opened, and in walked two women in scrubs. Familiar faces from yesterday—only this time, I could tell them apart. One had a wedding ring and the kind of warmth that made me feel like I’d met her in another life. The other was younger, radiant, and walking with a bounce that made her braids dance. “Good morning!” the married one said brightly. Her accent curled around the words like a hug. “We try English today, yes?” I nodded, cautiously. “I’m Mama Deka,” she said, patting her chest. “You—very strong girl. Very lucky. You sleep like stone!” “Thank you?” I mouthed. “And me,” said the bubbly one, grinning. “I’m Achieng. But you can call me Achie. Easier for you.” I tried to repeat it. “A...chie?” They both clapped like I’d just performed a miracle. “Very good!” Mama Deka beamed. “Today, we teach you little words. You need to survive here.” Achie pointed to herself again. “Achie.” Then to Mama Deka. “Mama.” Then she gestured to the rising sun peeking through the blinds. “Habari ya asubuhi. Say with me!” “Ha...ba...ri... ya... asu...buhi?” I butchered it. Mama Deka laughed so hard she nearly dropped her clipboard. “Eh! We will make Kenyan girl out of you yet.” I smiled. A real one this time. It felt strange on my face—like I wasn’t sure if I had permission to feel... okay. Achie leaned closer, eyes soft. “You know... you look like a rose flower.” I blinked. “What?” “In all this white,” she said, gesturing to the sterile walls and bedsheets, “you are the color. The pretty. Like rose in snow.” Mama Deka nodded. “And when you smile, eh! We feel shy, like someone gave us bouquet.” They exchanged a look. “You need name,” Mama Deka said matter-of-factly. “We can’t call you ‘the girl.’” Achie grinned. “Rose. It suits you.” I swallowed hard. My chest tightened—grateful and aching at the same time. Rose. Not my name. But... better than nothing. I nodded slowly. “Okay,” I whispered. “Rose.” And just like that, I had a name. Not mine. Not really. But it was something. A root in the storm. Even if I didn’t know who I was... At least now, I was someone. I was Rose. Apparently. And as far as names go, it didn’t feel like a lie. Just... a placeholder. A polite question mark. The kind you put flowers on while waiting for the truth to come back. Later that afternoon, the air shifted. I didn’t hear the footsteps this time. I felt them. Like the room knew he was coming before I did. The man from yesterday—the one with the sunglasses and the “I run empires and break hearts” energy—walked in again. No shades this time. Just a tight jaw and eyes that looked like they’d had enough of the world. Of me. He spoke with the doctor just outside the room. Their tones were hushed, clipped. Professional. Then something changed. His voice rose—just a notch. But it was enough to make my heart trip over itself. “What do you mean she doesn’t remember anything?” The doctor murmured something back. I couldn’t hear all of it, but I caught words like “amnesia,” “trauma,” “monitoring.” The man—Mr. Feddie, as the nurses told me—stepped in fully, finally meeting my eyes. His were colder than yesterday. Not anger. Not quite. Something sharper. Like guilt with a vengeance. He turned to the nurse beside him. “How long will she be here?” The nurse hesitated. “She’s stable now. But she has no family here. No identity. No phone. No memory. Until we trace anything... she needs someone to be responsible.” Feddie blinked. Once. Twice. And then, like a volcano that had been politely waiting its turn—he exploded. “I hit her with my car,” he snapped, motioning to me like I was a math problem he couldn’t solve. “I came here to pay her bills. Compensate. I didn’t sign up for adoption!” I flinched. Internally, of course. On the outside, I was still very much a quiet flower in snow. “She doesn’t even remember her name. You want me to—what—take her to my house? For how long? Weeks? Months?” His accent sharpened with each sentence, like his English was losing patience. “I’ll pay,” he growled. “Keep her here. Hell, I’ll pay daily if that’s what it takes. But I’m not taking her in. She could be a spy. A con. Anything!” Ouch. He gave me one last look. Not cruel. Just... cornered. And angry that I was the corner. Then he turned and walked out, muttering something in another language that was not the swahili i was being taught- that I’m 90% sure wasn’t “have a great day.” The silence he left behind was louder than the outburst. I stared at the doorway for a long time, my throat tight. Spy? Really? If I were a spy, I was doing a spectacular job of failing at it. I couldn’t even spy on my own memory. I looked down at the IV in my hand, at the plain sheets, at the little plastic cup of water someone had left on the tray beside me. I felt small. I didn’t cry. Not because I was brave. Because there was nothing in me left to squeeze out. Feddie was gone. And apparently, so was I. So I did the only thing I could. I curled deeper into the blanket, pressed my lips into something that almost resembled a smile, and whispered to the ceiling, “Nice to meet you, Rose.”