The rhythmic clatter of the bus over gravel roads shook the thoughts from her head, but not the weight from her chest. Jane leaned her forehead against the windowpane, watching tall palm trees blur past in the orange hue of the setting sun. The further she got from the city, the quieter her world became.
She had left everything behind—her apartment, her job, her name on the mailbox beside his. The divorce papers were final, crisp and legal, but they didn't erase the ache. They never said how grief could cling to your bones, even when you were the one who walked away.
The bus hissed as it pulled to a stop in front of a faded sign: Ama-Ugwu Village. She stood up slowly, clutching her worn handbag and small suitcase. Her mother was already waiting by the roadside, hands wrung in that familiar way, eyes scanning anxiously.
"Jane!" her mother called, embracing her tightly, as if to squeeze the sadness out of her.
"I'm home, Mama," she murmured, her voice dry.
Her father waved quietly from a distance, nodding as she approached. They didn't ask questions—bless them for that. They knew the story from the whispers, from the silence on her end of the phone.
The evening passed gently, like falling into an old song. Her mother served hot yam porridge with dried fish, and her father told her the village hadn't changed a bit—except the new family that moved near the beach. Jane smiled politely, but the smile didn't reach her eyes.
Later that night, when sleep wouldn't come, she slipped outside barefoot. The air was heavy with the scent of salt and hibiscus. The sea wasn't far—she remembered that from childhood visits.
She walked, letting her feet carry her through the sandy path, past the crooked palm trees, until she reached it.
The ocean was still awake.
The waves whispered softly against the shore, as though inviting her pain to unravel into the tide. She hugged herself, staring into the horizon, breathing deeply. Then came the sound—soft laughter.
She turned.
A little girl, no older than seven, was dancing at the edge of the water, gathering shells in her tiny hands.
"Hello," Jane said gently.
The girl turned, smiled wide. "Are you a mermaid?" she asked seriously.
Jane blinked, then laughed—the first genuine laugh in months. "Not quite."
The girl walked up boldly. "I'm Ezinne. What's your name?"
"Jane."
"My papa says people don't talk to strangers, but you don't look like a stranger. You look… sad," the girl added thoughtfully.
Jane's throat tightened. "I guess I am."
Ezinne reached out, took her hand, and said, "Come for dinner tomorrow. My papa can cook jollof rice really well. Please?"
Before she could answer, a voice called out, firm and deep.
"Ezinne!" A tall man stepped into the moonlight—broad-shouldered, with the kind of quiet strength you don't learn from lifting weights. He looked at Jane, then at his daughter. "Come back here."
"Papa, can she come tomorrow?" the girl asked, tugging his sleeve.
He didn't respond right away. His eyes met Jane's—cautious, unreadable.
"I don't know who she is."
"I'm just visiting," Jane offered softly. "I'll only be here a while."
He nodded once, then gently ushered his daughter away. Ezinne waved as they disappeared down the path.
Jane stood alone again on the sand, the sea whispering at her feet.
She didn't know it yet, but that dinner invitation would be the first thread in a new tapestry she hadn't dared dream of.