A burning Rose

A Voice Through Smoke

FIYIN

I woke up before the sun.

The room was still. But something wasn’t.

There was a pressure in my chest, light but insistent, like fingers pressing down—not to crush, but to warn.

I sat up slowly, heart thudding. My skin prickled like I was being watched, even though the room was empty.

I hadn’t dreamed—at least not anything I could remember. But I knew something had visited me. Like smoke curling through a closed window. Unseen, but felt. Whispered.

And underneath it all... the name. Isabelle. I had known it. Before she’d ever said it.

How?

I pulled the covers tighter around my shoulders. Something wasn’t right. That woman’s eyes had been full of fire, not just jealousy. Something else. She’d looked at me like a threat to be handled, not a rival to be ignored.

And I remembered the way her gaze lingered as she left. Not in defeat.

In calculation.

She was planning something.

I didn't know who I was—but something told me I used to be someone who sensed danger. And right now, every part of me was on alert.

Feddie didn’t come up to check on me that morning. I stayed curled in my room, silently watching the light shift through the window. I heard him downstairs—clinking cups, pacing. Twice he started up the stairs, only to stop.

Around ten, he knocked.

I didn’t answer.

“Rose?” he called gently.

Still, I said nothing.

There was a pause. A breath. Then, “I’m making breakfast. I’ll leave a plate on the table if you’re hungry.”

The footsteps faded.

When I finally came down an hour later, the house was quiet again. On the kitchen island was a plate covered in foil. Underneath: eggs, fruit, toast.

The smell was warm. Familiar. Comforting in a way I wasn’t used to anymore.

Next to the plate was a note in neat, sharp handwriting.

You don’t have to talk. But you’re safe here. —F

I sat down and ate. Every bite was slow. Careful. But I didn’t stop until the plate was clean.

FEDDIE

She didn’t know I was watching from the hallway.

Not like a creep—just… observing. Making sure she came down. Making sure she ate. Making sure she was still here.

Isabelle’s visit had shaken her. I’d seen it in the way she shrank back. The way she wouldn’t meet my eyes after.

But what really gutted me? That question she’d asked.

"Who am I?"

Truth was, I didn’t know. I didn’t know who she was, where she came from, what kind of pain she was holding in her bones like marrow. But I knew this: the woman upstairs was holding herself together with scraps. And I was the last person she wanted near her while she did it.

Still, I had to try.

I went back into the kitchen, cleared the plate she’d left on the counter. Her fork had been wiped clean before she set it down.

She was used to disappearing, I realized. Used to being in places she didn’t belong. Used to covering her tracks.

I couldn’t fix the past. But maybe I could offer her something small. Something real.

So I printed out two tickets and slid them under her door with a second note:

Art gallery. Saturday. You choose if we go. If not, no pressure. But if yes, I’ll wait by the car at 11.

FIYIN

I stared at the envelope for hours.

Choice. It was such a strange word. I hadn’t made one in days. Maybe weeks. Maybe longer than that.

I pressed my palm to the paper.

The gallery name looked familiar. Or maybe not. I wasn’t sure. But something in the handwriting—his—felt less cold today. Less polished.

More like a person trying.

Still, the warning in my chest hadn’t faded. Isabelle had left a mark behind—not just in my nerves, but in the air.

That night, as I lay in bed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was whispering through the walls. Not a voice. A presence. Like smoke wrapping around my ear and sliding into my thoughts.

Mo nife're gan, she’ogbon…

I love you very much, do you understand?

The words weren’t mine.

But the ache they left behind was.

And somehow, I knew they were the last words my mother had ever said to me.

I curled into myself, eyes wide open in the dark.

FEDDIE

She didn’t come down to dinner.

I didn’t knock again.

I just left another plate at her door. A bowl of roasted vegetables and rice, the way I’d seen her pick them out of the mixed dishes when we ordered in.

A small note this time.

Still your choice. No rush.

I waited until midnight.

The plate was still there.

But the note was gone.