The smell of frying onions was a lie. It was too domestic, too thick, too real to belong in the graveyard of Nala’s mind. She stood in the center of the Dodoma bedroom the one with the peeling blue paint and the cracked window that always rattled when the wind kicked up dust from the plains. But the air was stagnant. It didn't move.
Nala stepped toward the vanity mirror, her boots making no sound on the floorboards. Her reflection remained motionless, a haunting mannequin with violet liquid staining its cheeks.
"Leo?" she whispered. The name felt like a piece of lead in her mouth.
The reflection didn't blink. "He’s in the garden, Nala. Waiting for the rain that never comes."
Nala spun around, tearing herself away from the glass. She bolted through the door, expecting the narrow hallway
