The next morning broke in silence.
No birds. No taxis hooting. No laughter from the children outside.
Only the slow hum of the fridge and the echo of her heartbeat.
Dombi sat at the small wooden table, the envelope from last night lying open before her like an exposed wound. The papers were no longer just documents — they were ghosts. They whispered her parents' names, their company's name, their deaths.
She hadn't slept all night. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the faces of people she trusted smiling at her — Gugu handing her food, Zanele braiding her hair — but behind those smiles, shadows stretched long and dark.
Her eyes burned. "Why didn't anyone tell me about this?" she whispered, her voice breaking.
Her throat ached with the effort of holding back tears.
She touched one of the photos again — her father, tall and proud, his hand resting protectively on a small girl's shoulder. Her.
It wasn't a proud family portrait — it was evidence of everything stolen.
A knock at the door snapped her attention.
Sharp. Measured.
Her whole body went stiff.
"Who's there?" she asked, voice barely steady.
"It's me… Zanele. Open the door."
Relief flooded her chest for a heartbeat — but only a heartbeat. Something in Zanele's tone was different. Cold. Carefully measured.
Dombi hesitated before opening the door.
Zanele stood there, rain clinging to her jacket, hair tied back. She smiled, but her eyes… they didn't mean the smile.
"Hey," Zanele said, stepping inside before Dombi could respond. "You look tired. Long night?"
Dombi forced a small laugh. "Yeah… I just couldn't sleep."
Zanele's gaze swept the room, landing on the table. The envelope. The papers. Her expression froze for a fraction of a second — enough.
Dombi saw it. That flicker of recognition.
Her pulse raced. She gripped the envelope tighter. "I found some old things," she whispered, testing her voice. "I didn't know my parents had so much before…"
Zanele interrupted softly. "Before they died, you mean heh?"
There was something in her tone — a strange calmness that didn't fit.
"Yes," Dombi said, heart hammering. "Do you remember anything about them?"
Zanele stepped closer. Too close. "I remember they weren't careful."
Dombi froze. The air between them thickened, charged like a storm about to break.
"What do you mean?" she asked quietly.
Zanele smiled, a distant, sad smile. "Some truths, Dombi, can destroy more than lies ever could."
Dombi's fingers curled into fists. "And some lies can destroy lives."
Zanele's eyes darkened. "You shouldn't have opened that envelope."
Silence.
The kind of silence that felt like a scream.
Then Zanele sighed and turned away, her voice softer, almost pleading. "Leave it alone, Dombi. You have no idea what you're walking into. Please."
And then she was gone.
The door clicked shut.
Dombi sank onto the couch, trembling, her mind spinning. What did Zanele mean? How much did she know? Why did her warning feel less like care… and more like guilt?
Tears finally broke free. She had lost her parents once. But now she was losing everything she thought was real — her family, her safety, her own sense of self.
She wiped her face and whispered, voice shaking but determined:
"I don't care what it will cost. I will find the truth."
Outside, thunder rumbled, rolling low and heavy across the sky — as
if the world itself was warning her that the storm had only just begun—