The notebook felt heavier than a laptop. Sandra sat cross-legged on her bed, the window slightly open, wind slipping in like a quiet visitor. The same notebook she'd used back at university, with her name faded on the cover, now held a different kind of knowledge. Not textbooks. Not theory. But memory. Patterns. Suspicion. Pain.
She didn't write for drama. She wrote for survival.
She turned to a fresh page and began to note dates.
Day 1 – The elevator.
Day 3 – First summon.
Day 6 – The photo.
Day 10 – Victor's name on an unapproved file.
Day 15 – The second envelope.
She paused.
Then added another line.
Day 27 – Immy didn't look me in the eye.
She sighed deeply and dropped her pen. Her hand was cramping but her chest felt worse. She heard voices in the other room. Immy was watching a series, laughing a little too loudly. Sandra couldn't tell if it was real laughter or just a way to drown something out. Maybe both of them were drowning. Just differently.
She stood and stretched her legs. The walls around her felt too close tonight. Like they were listening.
She didn't know that miles away, James was sitting in silence too, staring down at a cup of untouched coffee in his Kololo apartment. No TV. No music. Just stillness.
He had read the note she left behind in the boardroom earlier. The one she didn't mean for him to see. The one written inside the same notebook. It wasn't long. It simply said:
"I don't cry in front of people. But I bleed in silence. And right now, I don't know who is cutting me anymore."
He ran his hand down his face and closed the notebook. The file he'd received about her father's tribunal case was still sitting untouched beside him. He couldn't bring himself to read it yet. Not because he didn't care. But because he did.
The door knocked once. James stood, walked to the door, and opened it.
No one was there.
Just a brown envelope lying on the floor.
No label. No sender.
He didn't need one.
He picked it up slowly, stepped back inside, and locked the door.
When he opened the envelope, the first thing he saw was a photo.
Sandra.
Three years younger.
Standing beside a man.
Her father.
Again.
He'd seen this photo before, but this one had a note written across the back.
"She lied. Again. And this time, it will cost you both."
James folded the photo, sat down, and stared at the floor.
He didn't know who kept sending these. But he knew why.
Someone wanted to destroy her by breaking her trust.
And it was working.
But he wasn't going to let them.
Not this time.
Not with her.
The next morning, he called a number he hadn't dialed in five years. It rang twice before a woman answered.
"Hello?"
"Agnes?" he said quietly.
She paused. "Who is this?"
"My name is James Mugeni. I'm… I work with Sandra."
She went quiet.
"I would like to speak with you," he said. "In person."
"Why?"
"Because I want to understand what your daughter carries. The kind of weight she walks around with."
Silence.
Then a tired sigh.
"Then come. But don't expect soft stories."
The house in Kanyanya hadn't changed. The gate still creaked. The same flowers still leaned from plastic basins near the steps.
James knocked gently.
Sandra's mother answered in a faded kitenge and slippers.
She didn't smile. But she didn't frown either.
Just stepped aside and said, "Come in."
They sat over tea, the kind that burned slightly at the tongue. She didn't pour sugar. He didn't ask.
She looked at him like a soldier studying an enemy's face.
"I know who you are," she said. "Sandra doesn't say much, but I can see it on her skin. The change. The weight. The confusion."
James nodded once. "I didn't come to defend myself."
"Good. Because you can't."
He looked down at the floor for a second, then raised his eyes.
"I want to understand why she doesn't break."
Her mother chuckled softly. A bitter sound.
"Because she was taught early that crying doesn't pay rent. That begging doesn't buy medicine. That her tears can't keep her brother alive."
James swallowed hard.
"She didn't get a childhood," Agnes added. "She got responsibility."
"I see that," he said.
"Then don't become another reason she learns to hide."
James stood after a while. Thanked her. She didn't walk him out.
He didn't need her to.
That same night, Sandra sat on the verandah, notebook on her lap, phone on silent.
She wrote slowly, words leaking out of her.
"I used to think silence meant peace. Now I know it can be a weapon. And sometimes, the sharpest blades are the ones no one sees coming."
She heard the gate open slightly.
A knock.
She didn't move.
Immy came out holding two mugs.
"Made you tea," she said.
Sandra nodded and took it.
They sat quietly, sipping.
Then Immy whispered, "You don't trust me anymore."
Sandra didn't answer.
"I can feel it," Immy said again. "I just want to say… I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I never wanted to be part of whatever this is. Victor… he's different."
Sandra finally looked at her. "Different how?"
"Sometimes he talks like he's planning a war."
"Maybe he is."
"Do you think he's the one sending things?"
Sandra's voice was soft. "I think he wants something."
Immy whispered, "Do you think he wants to hurt you?"
"I think he wants to own me. And that's the same thing."
Later that night, James couldn't sleep. He walked to his window and stared into the dark.
His phone buzzed.
An alert.
The motion sensor outside Sandra's home had picked up movement.
He opened the app.
A man in a hoodie.
Same posture as before.
Another envelope slipped under the door.
James didn't think.
He grabbed his keys and was gone within seconds.
Sandra didn't hear the knock at first.
It was soft. Slow.
By the third knock, she stood.
Opened the door.
James stood there, soaked from light rain, holding the brown envelope.
He handed it to her without speaking.
She opened it slowly.
This time, there was no photo.
Just a flash drive.
No label.
No note.
Sandra looked up at him.
"I'm scared," she whispered.
He didn't move.
But he looked at her, really looked.
And said, "So am I."
She didn't cry.
She just nodded.
And let him in.
Because some storms weren't meant to be weathered alone.
And sometimes, silence wasn't a wall.
It was a whisper.
Saying stay.