ASHES OF AUGUST

Chapter Three: The Return

Nairobi, June 2023.

The air at Jomo Kenyatta International was thick with humidity and the tang of jet fuel. Exhaust fumes curled in the heat rising off the tarmac, blending with the chatter of families pressed against glass and lovers pacing anxiously with flowers in hand. Adrian stood among them, his shirt sticking to his back despite the ceiling fans overhead. He had no flowers, no signs. Only nerves.

He had been rehearsing this moment for weeks. He had pictured her face, her walk, her voice. He had imagined her smile dissolving the years between them, imagined himself saying something clever and simple, as if time hadn’t torn them apart. But now, as passengers streamed past customs and luggage clattered onto conveyor belts, his chest tightened with panic. What if she had changed? What if the distance had carved them into strangers?

And then...

She appeared.

Elena moved through the sliding doors with the air of someone who belonged both everywhere and nowhere. A long black coat trailed behind her, though Nairobi’s air was warm. Her hair spilled in dark waves over her shoulders, slightly tangled from the flight, her face pale but alert, her eyes searching. When they landed on him, the corners of her lips lifted in a smile that was both radiant and trembling.

“Adrian.”

He didn’t think. He only ran.

Their bodies collided like two magnets finally freed from distance. Her suitcase toppled sideways, unnoticed. His arms wrapped around her waist, hers clutched his shoulders. For a moment, neither spoke. Their breaths mingled, and the years dissolved into heat and heartbeat.

“You’re real,” Adrian whispered against her hair.

“I told you I’d come back.” Her voice was soft but carried something underneath...a fatigue, a shadow.

They pulled back slightly, eyes meeting. He kissed her before doubt could creep in, before the crowd could steal the moment. She kissed him back with urgency, as if afraid he would vanish in the press of people.

When they finally broke apart, breathless, Elena rested her forehead against his. “Three years, Adrian. Too long.”

“Never again,” he vowed. “Not a day more apart.”

The drive into the city was a blur of headlights and honking horns. Adrian’s old Toyota hummed along Mombasa Road, weaving through traffic. Elena leaned back in the passenger seat, staring out the window as neon signs flickered across her face.

“You’ve changed,” Adrian said softly, stealing glances at her.

“So have you.” Her fingers played absently with the silver bracelet on her wrist. “You’ve gotten older. Wiser, maybe.”

“Older, sure. Wiser?” He chuckled. “Still up for debate.”

She smiled faintly, but her eyes didn’t meet his.

“Tell me about Samoa,” he pressed. “What was it like? You barely spoke of it.”

Her gaze remained on the passing darkness outside. “Beautiful. Isolated. The kind of place where time forgets you. The ocean is endless, but so are the storms.”

“That’s it? Three years, and all I get is a travel brochure line?”

She finally turned to him, her eyes flickering with something...fear? irritation? “Some things aren’t meant to be retold, Adrian. Not yet.”

He swallowed his questions, but unease gnawed at him.

They reached his apartment in Kilimani, a modest place tucked between bougainvillea-lined streets. He fumbled with the keys, hands shaking, and when the door swung open, Elena stepped inside as though she had been there all along.

The scent of fresh paint and coffee lingered. On the table lay a stack of books, two wine glasses, a candle half-burned from the night before.

Elena traced her fingers along the shelf, pausing at the framed photo of them from 2020, taken on the eve of their separation. She picked it up, staring at their younger faces, the innocence etched into their smiles.

“We look like children,” she murmured.

“We were,” Adrian said behind her. “But I’d do it all again. Every mile. Every second. Just to get back here with you.”

She set the frame down carefully, then turned. “Adrian… what if I told you I’m not the same person anymore?”

He closed the space between them in two strides, cupping her face. “Then I’d say: good. Neither am I. But I still love you.”

Her lips parted, as if to speak, but he kissed her before she could.

The kiss deepened quickly...urgent, hungry, the kind of kiss built on three years of waiting. Clothes slipped away, hands searched desperately, and when they finally collapsed into his bed, it was less about desire and more about survival. As though proving to themselves, through touch, that they were still alive, still real, still each other’s.

Afterward, they lay tangled in sheets, the night city murmuring beyond the balcony. Adrian traced circles on her bare shoulder.

“So,” he said, voice low. “Are you going to tell me the real story of Samoa? Or do I have to bribe you?”

Elena chuckled softly, but her laugh faded quickly. She stared at the ceiling, her face unreadable. “There are pieces of me I left behind. Things I can’t… can’t drag back with me.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

Her silence was answer enough.

Adrian propped himself up on one elbow. “Elena, you can trust me with anything. You know that, right?”

Her eyes shifted to his, and for a fleeting moment, he saw something raw in them...guilt, or maybe fear. Then she smiled faintly, as though sealing the truth back inside. “I know.”

But she didn’t say more.

The days that followed were blissful, but tinged with unease.

They strolled hand in hand through Uhuru Park, feeding ducks, laughing like teenagers. They dined at small street cafes, fingers brushing across tabletops, eyes locked in quiet conspiracies. At night, they stayed in, cooking together, fighting playfully over spices, kissing between stirring pots.

Yet Adrian noticed her glances over her shoulder in crowded places. The way she jumped slightly at sudden noises. The way her phone buzzed late at night, and she would step onto the balcony to answer, voice low, words in a language he didn’t recognize.

One evening, as they walked along Kenyatta Avenue, a black SUV slowed beside them before pulling away. Adrian thought nothing of it. Elena, however, tightened her grip on his arm until her knuckles whitened.

“Elena?” he asked, but she shook her head, smiling too brightly.

“It’s nothing. Just tired.”

One night, over wine and candlelight, Adrian pressed again.

“Why do I feel like half of you is still in Samoa?”

She toyed with the rim of her glass. “Because half of me is. Some ghosts don’t respect borders.”

“You talk like you’re being haunted.”

“Maybe I am.”

Her words hung in the air, brittle. Then she leaned forward, kissed him softly, and whispered, “Don’t ask me about it again. Please. For now, just let me be here. With you.”

Adrian wanted to argue, but her lips silenced him.

By August, their reunion had settled into something fragile but real. Adrian was already planning their anniversary dinner. Elena seemed lighter, though shadows still clung to her. Sometimes, when she thought he wasn’t looking, she’d sit by the window, staring at the city lights with an expression he couldn’t read.

And always, she kept her secrets close.

One afternoon, as Adrian left for errands, he noticed Elena sitting at his desk, rifling quickly through envelopes. When she saw him, she startled, forcing a smile.

“Looking for stamps,” she explained.

But Adrian wasn’t convinced.

Later that night, when she slept beside him, her breathing deep and steady, Adrian lay awake staring at the ceiling.

Elena was here. Elena was his again. Yet she carried with her the weight of something unspoken, something heavy enough to bend the light around her.

He told himself it didn’t matter. Love was enough.

But deep down, he knew: the past always finds a way back.

And Elena’s past was already moving toward them, silent and inevitable as a storm.

End of Chapter Three.