The Girl In the Yellow Dress

Chapter Four

The week leading up to their next meeting moved in that strange, elastic way time does when you’re waiting for something important. Every day seemed longer than it should be, but the week as a whole vanished in a blink.

Samuel kept his promise. Every night, he wrote in the notebook Amara had given him — small details, dreams, even the things he thought were insignificant: the smell of suya on the walk home, the way a design sketch had stubbornly refused to work, the odd feeling of déjà vu he got when it rained on Tuesday night.

The dreams came again — always rain, always the station, always a hand in his. But never a full picture. It was like watching a film through a frosted window.

Saturday morning had finally come — the day his father had promised they’d talk.

When Samuel arrived at his father’s flat, the smell of boiling tea leaves filled the air. Mr. Tunde was at the small dining table, two cups already set out, as if the conversation was a meeting they’d both agreed to attend but hadn’t decided how to start.

“You look tired,” his father said, pouring tea.

“I’ve been… thinking,” Samuel replied. “About ten years ago. Valentine’s Day.”

Mr. Tunde nodded slowly, as though bracing himself. “You were twenty-two,” he said. “You’d gone to the station that morning to sketch. It was raining later in the day. There was an… accident.”

“What kind of accident?”

His father hesitated. “A train derailment. Not as bad as some, but bad enough. People were hurt. Some… didn’t make it.” He took a sip of tea before continuing. “You were there with a girl. I never saw her after that day. You wouldn’t talk about her afterwards. And then… You forgot.”

“I forgot?” Samuel echoed, his voice tight.

“You were in shock. The doctors said you had a concussion. Sometimes the mind protects itself by locking things away.”

Samuel stared at him. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“What good would it have done?” his father asked, his voice low. “You didn’t remember. You were healing. Digging it up felt like making you live the accident twice.”

That conversation sat with Samuel like a heavy stone all week until Friday arrived.

The old pedestrian bridge was quieter than usual when he got there. Amara was already waiting, leaning against the railing, her yellow dress catching the late-morning light. She smiled when she saw him, but there was something in her eyes — a weight, a decision already made.

“You spoke to your father?” she asked.

“I did. He told me about the derailment.”

She nodded, as if she had expected that. “Then I think you’re ready for the rest.”

They walked down from the bridge to the edge of Platform 4, the same spot where they had first spoken. The station was busy, but their little bubble of conversation felt private.

“That Valentine’s Day,” she began, “I was on my way to meet my brother. He was travelling from Ibadan to spend the weekend. You were on the platform, sketching the trains. It started raining — heavy, fast. People rushed for cover. You were standing under the bridge when I ran past. My umbrella flipped inside out, and you caught it, handed it back, and laughed. That’s how we started talking.”

Samuel almost smiled — he could see himself doing that.

“We talked until the train came in,” she continued. “My brother was on it. But before I could reach him, there was a jolt — a horrible screech. The last two carriages derailed. Chaos. People screaming. I couldn’t move. You pulled me back, away from the edge. A piece of the roof from the shelter came loose and fell… You shielded me. You were hit.”

She paused. Her voice was steady, but her hands were clenched together. “When you woke up, you didn’t know who I was. You didn’t even remember why you were at the station. I stayed at the hospital until your father arrived. He told me it might be better if I didn’t come again — that you needed peace to recover.”

Samuel stood there, stunned, the station noise fading to a low hum in his ears.

“My brother…” she said, her voice dipping, “didn’t survive.”

The words landed like iron in his chest. He looked at her — at the calm way she held his gaze, at the sadness that lived just beneath it. “Amara… I—”

“You couldn’t have saved him,” she interrupted gently. “You saved me.”

He swallowed hard, unsure whether the tightening in his throat was guilt or grief or both.

They stood there as a train approached, the wind from it whipping between them.

“Why come back every year?” he asked finally.

“Because I wanted you to remember,” she said simply. “Not because you owe me anything. But because that day — those hours before the accident—meant something. And I didn’t want to be the only one carrying it.”

The train roared past them, rattling the ground beneath their feet.

When it had gone, she reached out, her fingers brushing his hand, light, tentative, as if giving him the choice to take it or not. He closed his fingers around hers.

“Next Friday,” she said softly, “I’ll show you the last piece.”

“What’s the last piece?” he asked.

She looked at him, eyes deep and certain. “The reason you wrote me that letter.”