Dusk arrives early, cloaked in faded coral and pearly gray, and hailed by dull pitter-patters on the mud floor and flattened roof. I draw near the stove in the company of sweet Jomo and wrap my hands around a cup of steaming brew. A faint cold dwells in my bones.
“So, he came.” Palmo sits beside me, her slender hand on my arm.
“He did,” I say, and stare at my tea.
“But all’s not finished,” she says, “For you would not be so quiet if it was.” Her fingers slide over her beads.
I shake my head. I want to tell her all is well, but I would be lying. My eyes burn and I turn away.
Jomo closes the door on her way out. The wind lashes out at the rain, its drum a rapid beat against the earthen walls.
“What is it that still rests on you?” Palmo’s voice probes the depth inside of me. And as
