Chapter Three: Fire and Ashes
768 Words
The third time Efe walked into the funeral home, the sky was swollen with rain, and the power was out.
The room smelled like candle wax and old paper. A small rechargeable lamp sat on the desk, casting a faint bluish glow across Ade’s face.
She stepped in, dripping slightly from the rain, scarf soaked, slippers squeaking.
“PHCN is still doing their best to frustrate dreams, I see,” she said, pulling her wet scarf off.
Ade looked up from the obituary draft he was editing. “Welcome to the land of the living.”
“Barely,” she muttered, shaking water off her hands. “You won’t believe what today threw at me.”
He raised a brow. “Try me.”
She flopped into the familiar seat across from him, her fingers trembling slightly. Not from cold — from something else.
“An old classmate saw me today. At the bank. She asked me what I’ve been up to since NYSC.” Efe chuckled bitterly. “I told her I was planning my funeral.”
Ade didn’t laugh.
She sighed. “Of course, I didn’t say that. I said I’m doing ‘personal projects.’ Which is technically not a lie.”
Silence stretched between them. Outside, thunder rumbled like a warning.
She stared at the flickering lamp. “I’m scared, Ade.”
That was new. Honest. Raw.
“Of dying?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Of changing my mind.”
He leaned forward. “Then don’t.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Why not?”
“Because wanting to live means accepting that I have to start again. From scratch. With all the pieces of me still broken.”
Her voice cracked.
“I wake up and feel like the world is thirty steps ahead and I’m still in bed, wondering if I should bother brushing my teeth. You know how that feels?”
Ade’s face didn’t change. But something in his eyes did.
“I know exactly how that feels,” he said softly. “Like you’re walking through life barefoot on gravel.”
She nodded. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Exactly.”
For a long moment, they just sat. The power stayed gone. The rain kept falling.
Then, quietly, Ade got up and reached for a metal tray beside the desk. He set it down between them. Two mugs. A flask. And a pack of cabin biscuits.
Efe blinked. “What’s this?”
“I figured you might come.”
“You made tea?”
He poured for both of them. “Ginger and lemon. No sugar.”
She sipped, closed her eyes. “This is... surprisingly good.”
“Funeral home secrets,” he said.
They drank in silence. Somewhere in the distance, a generator started humming — not theirs. Probably the bakery across the street.
Then she asked the question.
“Ade, do you ever feel like you weren’t supposed to survive your own story?”
He looked at her. “Every single day.”
Something shifted. Like a wall crumbled between them. The kind of c***k that lets air in.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
“My letter,” she said.
He hesitated. “To whom?”
“No one. Everyone. Just something I wanted to read at the funeral.”
“Can I read it?”
She handed it to him without a word.
He unfolded it. It wasn’t long. A few shaky lines, scrawled in dark pen:
To the people who knew me halfway,
To the ones who never asked,
I was tired. Not ungrateful.
Not dramatic. Just… tired.
If you ever feel like I did,
Please stay. Please talk.
I’m sorry I didn’t.
—Efe
Ade folded it gently.
“I’m keeping this,” he said.
She blinked. “Why?”
“Because I want to see what you write when you change your mind.”
Efe laughed, but there was a tremor in it. “You’re optimistic.”
“No. I’m invested.”
Their eyes locked.
And for a strange, suspended second, the world paused. The rain. The silence. Even the weight in her chest. All paused.
Her lips parted slightly. Not for a smile — for something uncertain. Something unfinished.
He didn’t touch her. Didn’t move closer. But the air between them? It changed. It thickened. Like electricity before a storm.
“Careful,” she whispered. “You’re starting to make me want to live.”
Ade leaned back slowly, voice low.
“Then I guess the tea worked.”
- Writer
