Zeba Heather

Chapter 4

By the fourth day, the apartment was starting to feel warm.

Zeba did not think of this consciously. It showed itself in smaller ways. She no longer hesitated before sitting. She no longer waited for permission to stand when someone entered a room. She learned the sounds of the place well enough to know which ones belonged to it and which ones did not.

Morning came with noise and not the rise of the sun.

A delivery truck idled nearby, its engine making weird sounds. Someone argued with the driver, a short sharp exchange that ended with a door slamming. Zeba opened her eyes and stayed still, listening. The couch dipped slightly beneath her weight. She had slept on her side this time, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the jacket folded neatly at her feet.

In the kitchen, Maris was already awake. The tap ran, stopped, ran again. A drawer opened, then closed. The kettle was set down harder than usual.

Zeba sat up.

Maris glanced over her shoulder. “You’re up early.”

“Yes,” Zeba replied with a faint smile.

“That happens,” Maris replied, in a friendly way.

Zeba crossed the room and washed her face. The mirror above the sink reflected a narrower version of the room behind her. She noticed how her eyes had grown accustomed to the light here, how little adjustment they needed now. She dried her face with the towel hanging from the handle and stepped aside.

Maris handed her a mug. “Drink before it gets cold.”

Zeba did just that. The coffee tasted stronger than before. She wondered if that was deliberate.

Tasha arrived next, her hair was loose and she had a sharp expression. She leaned against the counter and watched Zeba over the rim of her cup.

“You always wake up like that?” she asked.

“Like what?”

“Already awake,” Tasha said. “Like you were waiting.”

Zeba shrugged. “I don’t sleep heavy.”

“That’s a shame,” Tasha replied. “Heavy sleep fixes things.”

Selina came in while they were still talking. She wore the same jacket as the day before, her hair pulled back tightly. She observed the room, the table, the cups, Zeba standing near the sink.

“Have you eaten?” Selina asked.

“Soon,” Zeba said.

“Eat first,” Selina replied. “Then anything else.”

Zeba did not argue. She tore a piece of bread and ate slowly, feeling Selina’s eyes on her. Selina did not speak again until Zeba finished.

“You’re coming with me later,” Selina said.

Zeba nodded. She had been expecting it.

The day unfolded with a sense of direction that had been missing before. Selina stayed inside longer than usual, pacing, checking her phone, writing something down and crossing it out again. Maris cleaned the kitchen and then cleaned it again, as though the first attempt had not satisfied her. Tasha left and returned twice, each time bringing in the smell of the street with her.

Zeba remained close enough to hear but far enough not to intrude. She sat at the table with her notebook open but she was not writing, just holding the pencil between her fingers. She had learned that the appearance of focus discouraged questions.

By midday, the heat had settled in. The window stayed open. Sounds from outside drifted in and lingered. A group of children passed, laughing loudly, their voices were sharp and careless. Zeba watched them until they disappeared from view.

Selina stood beside her. “You ready?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Jacket.”

Zeba put it on and they left together.

The street hit Zeba all at once. Heat, noise and movement. Selina walked ahead, not fast, not slow, setting a steady pace.

Zeba followed half a step behind, matching her stride. They did not speak.

Selina took routes that did not have crowds…these routes were more quiet.

She crossed streets at odd points, paused at corners, and turned without warning. Zeba stayed close, watching the back of Selina’s head, the line of her shoulders. She noted how Selina never seemed lost, even when the street names changed…

They stopped outside a small shop with barred windows. Selina nodded toward the door.

“Wait here.”

Zeba stood against the wall, hands in her pockets. People passed without looking at her. A man paused nearby, lit a cigarette, glanced at her once, then turned away. Zeba kept her gaze neutral.

Selina returned a few minutes later with a small bag. She did not explain what was inside.

They walked again.

“You’re quiet,” Selina said eventually.

“I have nothing to say.”

Selina looked at her. “I see, so you're listening then. Listening only works if you remember.”

“I do.”

“Good.”

They passed a park with empty benches in the sun. Selina slowed down, then stopped. She pointed toward a bench near the far end.

“Sit there,” she said. “I’ll be back.”

Zeba hesitated. “Here?”

“Yes.”

Zeba crossed the grass and sat. The bench was warm. She kept her hands folded in her lap and watched the street beyond the park fence. People moved past, some glancing toward her, most not. She stayed still.

Time passed…about 10 minutes.

Selina returned and nodded once. “You did fine.”

They walked back toward the apartment as the light shifted, the day edging toward evening. Zeba felt the weight of the walk settle into her legs. She was not exhausted but she became alert.

Back inside, the apartment felt smaller.

Maris looked up when they entered. “Everything alright?”

Selina nodded. “She listens.”

Maris glanced at Zeba and smiled briefly. “That’s useful.”

Tasha arrived shortly after, carrying food. She dropped it on the table and sat.

“So,” she said, looking at Zeba. “You went out.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

Zeba considered. “The street is loud.”

Tasha laughed. “That’s one way to put it.”

They ate together, crowded around the table. Conversation drifted from one topic to another. Tasha complained about a client. Maris talked about a neighbour who kept knocking on the wrong door. Selina listened more than she spoke.

At one point, Tasha turned to Zeba. “You’re good at being where you’re told.”

Zeba met her gaze. “I’ve had to practice.”

Selina looked up sharply.

Zeba corrected herself. “I’ve learned.”

Selina nodded once and returned to her food.

Night settled in slowly. The women prepared to leave again. Zeba stayed behind. She sat on the couch and waited.

When the door closed, Zeba did not check the lock immediately. She trusted it now, or at least the habit of it.

She opened her notebook and wrote. Not about the street and not about Selina. She wrote about the bench in the park, about the heat on her hands, about the way people passed without noticing her. She wrote until her hand ached.

When sleep came, she drifted easily.