Morning broke slowly over the compound.
For the first time in many days, the air felt different.
No strange cries.
No restless footsteps echoing in the corridor.
No heavy, pressing fear clinging to every corner.
Ada woke with swollen eyes. She had barely slept.
The memory of the glowing red light and the whispering voice still lingered in her mind.
She sat up on her bed and whispered a quiet, trembling prayer.
From Flat Seven, Mr. Dike stepped outside for the first time in days.
The air felt lighter.
The silence no longer threatened.
Parents gathered in small groups, sharing hushed stories:
"My son slept through the entire night."
"My daughter didn't cry once."
"It feels… peaceful."
But not everyone felt relief.
Mr. Dike stood alone near the corridor wall, shoulders slumped, eyes heavy and distant.
For years, he had carried a burden that no one understood.
Now, the quiet felt strange — unfamiliar, almost unreal.
Ada approached him slowly.
"Sir… the night is over," she said softly.
He looked at her, tears brimming in his eyes.
"Thank you… for being brave when I no longer could be."
Before Ada could speak, a woman stepped forward.
It was Mama Uju. She knelt before Ada, grasping her hands tightly.
"Thank you… for saving our children."
One by one, other parents followed.
Some cried.
Some prayed.
Some only nodded, eyes full of gratitude.
Even as the compound breathed in a rare peace, Ada felt a quiet heaviness in her chest.
Some stories don't end just because the noise stops.
Some stories…
leave a mark that lingers long after the dawn.