The Girl In the Yellow Dress

Chapter Six

A year later, Lagos was in bloom.

Not the flower kind — Lagos didn’t do delicate blossoms. Its “bloom” was the hum of a city that had survived another year: the bustle of markets spilling into streets, music leaking from car radios, danfo drivers honking like punctuation marks. Valentine’s Day carried its layer — the city wrapped in red fabrics, roses balanced on okada seats, street vendors selling “special love hampers” for inflated prices.

Samuel arrived at Platform 4 early. Not the kind of early you fake so you can say, I wasn’t waiting long — the genuine early of a man who had counted down the minutes.

The station had been renovated over the past months. The pedestrian bridge had new paint, the timetable board was replaced, and the section where the old shelter once stood was finally cleared. Yet the air felt the same, thick with the scent of metal and motion.

He wore no jacket this time. The yellow petal, now brittle but intact, rested inside his wallet. The letter was folded in his notebook at home. He’d read it enough times that it was memorised.

When she appeared, it was like the station had been holding its breath.

Amara wore a long yellow dress today, the colour somewhere between sunflower and candlelight. Her hair was loose, brushed back by the wind, and she had a small yellow scarf around her neck. She moved through the crowd easily, as if she knew exactly where to place each step to avoid the rush.

“You’re early,” she said when she reached him.

“So are you,” he said.

They stood there for a moment, smiling like they’d both arrived at the same punchline.

Over the past year, they had rebuilt — not as if patching a broken wall, but like constructing something new with the bricks they’d kept. They met on Fridays, sometimes at the station, away from it. They talked about work, about the accident, about her brother. They didn’t rush anything.

And yet, this Valentine’s felt different. It felt like a full stop. Or maybe an opening line.

“I have something for you,” he said, pulling a small package from his bag.

Inside was a scarf — yellow, soft, with the faint shimmer of silk. She unfolded it slowly, running her fingers over the fabric. “It’s beautiful.”

“I thought…” He hesitated, then smiled. “If you’re going to keep showing up in yellow, you should have something new for next year’s Valentine’s Day.”

She laughed, then wrapped the scarf loosely around her neck. “Perfect fit.”

“And you?” he asked. “Did you bring me anything?”

She reached into her coat pocket and handed him a small square envelope. Inside was a photograph — a still frame from somewhere in the early 2010s. They were both in it: younger, standing under the pedestrian bridge, rain in the background. He was holding a sketchbook. She was holding an upside-down umbrella. They were both laughing.

Samuel stared at it. “Where did you—?”

“A commuter that day took photos during the chaos,” she said. “It surfaced online years later. I saved it. Thought you should have it.”

The photograph felt like proof, like time had handed them back a piece of itself.

The loudspeaker announced a train to Marina. They didn’t move.

“Do you think we would have met again,” she asked softly, “if the accident hadn’t happened?”

He looked at her, considered. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I know I’d have remembered you either way.”

She smiled, and in that moment, he understood something — not every answer needed certainty. Some answers just needed presence.

As the train approached, they stepped forward together. He reached for her hand, and she took it without hesitation.

Just before they boarded, Samuel glanced back at the platform. An older man in a dark coat was sitting on the far bench, watching them. He didn’t recognise the face, but the man stood as they entered the train, walked to where they’d been standing, and placed a single yellow flower on the bench. Then he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

“Did you see—?” Samuel began, turning to Amara.

But she was looking out the window as the train pulled away, her hand still in his, her expression unreadable.

They sat side by side as the train carried them forward. The station receded behind them, the flower now a small dot of colour in the grey.

Outside, the city rushed past. Inside, there was the warmth of the scarf, the weight of her hand in his, and the sense that the rain — whenever it came—would no longer be something to run from.

The End