Chapter 6: The Journey Wakes Again

The morning came slowly, soft and silent, as if the sky itself was tired of watching people fall and rise again. But for the first time in weeks, Amechi didn't pull the blanket over his head or hide from the day. He sat up, stretched, and let the sunlight touch his face like a quiet reminder:

> You're still here. You still have time.

He looked around the small room — the sketch pad on the table, his sandals near the door, the framed photo of his late father still hanging slightly crooked on the wall. Nothing had changed.

And yet… everything inside him had.

---

It had been over a month since he told Oge goodbye.

Not with loud words or slammed doors, but with that heavy silence that says, "I'm done trying to fix what keeps breaking me."

He hadn't seen her since.

No calls.

No texts

At first, the silence was unbearable — like hunger that made his chest feel hollow. But now, he had grown used to it. The wound was still there, yes… but it had started to close. Slowly. Quietly.

---

That morning, Amechi stepped outside into the cool air and looked around the compound. Children chased each other barefoot, women washed clothes in plastic basins, and the smell of fried akara floated from somewhere nearby.

Mama Emma was sweeping her side of the yard. She glanced up and smiled faintly. "You dey go out early today?"

He smiled back. "Yes ma. Got a few jobs lined up."

She nodded, but her eyes lingered, like she could see he wasn't the same boy who once sat broken in her kitchen.

As he walked down the road with his sketch folder tucked under his arm, he whispered to himself, "I have forgiven you, Amechi. That's the first step."

---

He arrived at a small printing shop near Upper Iweka, where he had once dropped a few of his artwork samples. A customer was already waiting for him — a young lady who wanted a painted portrait for her mother's birthday.

"This is beautiful," she said, flipping through his sketchbook. "You're very talented."

He smiled, not out of pride, but because the words no longer felt like flattery — they felt true.

He sat down under the shade of the awning and began to sketch while she talked about her mother. He listened with focus, with care, with presence.

For the first time, his hands felt steady again.

His heart was quiet.

---

Later that day, Amechi stopped by the school where he used to teach kids part-time art lessons. He hadn't been back since his London plans died.

But today, he walked in like a man who had made peace with the past.

The headmistress saw him and smiled. "Amechi! You disappeared on us oh."

"I needed time," he replied gently. "But I'm back, if you'll have me."

"Always," she said. "The children miss you."

---

By the time he got home that evening, his feet were tired but his spirit felt alive. The ache that used to sit in his chest had faded into something lighter — not joy exactly, but something close. Something honest.

He sat outside with his mother under the mango tree, peeling groundnuts together.

She glanced at him. "You're smiling again."

He nodded. "Because I've decided to move forward."

She looked at him the way mothers do — seeing everything in a single glance. "You've forgiven yourself, haven't you?"

"Yes, Mama."

"And her?"

He paused. "Not completely… but I'm learning to."

She reached for his hand. "Life is long, my son. Don't let one chapter define the whole book."

---

That night, in his room, Amechi opened a fresh page in his journal and wrote:

> "Forgiveness is not a gift to others.

It's a quiet mercy we give ourselves,

So we can breathe again.

I lost a dream, but I found purpose.

I lost a love, but I found strength.

The journey continues."

He closed the journal, placed it beside his bed, and smiled to himself.

---

But just before dawn…

Knock. Knock. Knock.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

A loud banging echoed on his door. Amechi was deep in sleep, but the sound kept coming, shaking the old wooden frame.

He sat up suddenly, heart racing.

"Who's there?" he called out.

Silence.

Then — a familiar female voice, soft but urgent:

"It's me."

His blood froze.

He knew that voice.

He hadn't heard it in weeks… but it still lived somewhere in his bones.

He stood, walked slowly toward the door, his mind already flooding with questions.

What was she doing here?

Why now?

And what did she want… this time?

To be continued in chapter 7 

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