CHAPTER 3: ENVISAGE

One and a half months later…

The airport pulsed with life—a hive of arrivals, departures, and drifting hellos. Warm rays of morning sun streamed through enormous glass panels, reflecting off polished floors and bouncing across bustling faces. Every sense was assaulted at once: the fading scents of perfumes and colognes trailing behind passengers, the metallic grind of luggage wheels, the sharp bark of flight announcements, and the low murmur of countless conversations layered over giggles, sobs, and the impatient coos of children.

Among this whirlwind, a lone woman moved with deliberate steps.

Candice Gbadamosi.

Mid-twenties. Brown-skinned. Her copper-ginger curls spilled out from beneath a beige hoodie, framing a sharp face with slightly sunken eyes—sleepless, haunted. Her posture was tense, her small yellow suitcase rolling behind her with a soft rattle as she walked through the terminal.

There was something different about her—an invisible barrier in the way she carried herself. People parted slightly around her as if her energy repelled contact, like static from a bad dream.

She stepped through the sliding glass doors, and the outside world greeted her with a breeze sharp enough to raise goosebumps along her arms. The city smelled of gas, exhaust, and the faint promise of rain.

Candice paused, reached into her hand bag, and pulled out her phone.

She dialed. It rang. No answer.

She tried again.

A slow chill coiled in her spine, a familiar, crawling sensation like cold fingers tracing her neck. Her eyes flicked back over her shoulder.

That feeling again.

That knowing—that irrational certainty—that someone was watching her.

She scanned the crowd. People moved. Laughed. Argued. But no one stood out.

Then her phone vibrated in her hand, startling her. The screen lit up.

Mum

With a red heart emoji.

She exhaled a breath she didn’t realize she was holding and answered in a low, soft tone.

“Hey… hi. Hello.”

“Candice?” her mother’s voice rang bright with joy. “Are you preparing to come home?”

Candice glanced up at the busy street. “It’s fine, Mum. I’ve actually landed. Already at the city airport.”

“Oh, goodness! You mean you’re here?! What time are you coming home? Eight? Ten? We’ll wait!”

Candice chuckled softly. “Mum… I’d love to be home today, but I’ve got something I need to do first. If I can finish quickly, I’ll be home in twenty-four hours, give or take.”

There was a pause.

“Oh…” her mother said.

Silence stretched awkwardly between them. Candice could hear the disappointment in her mother’s voice, and she sighed with guilt.

“Okay, okay—how about this?” she offered. “I’ll bring you a pinball machine. Latest model. Big enough to take up your entire sitting room.”

Her mother laughed, but the tone was strained.

Then—

Wham.

A shoulder collided into hers. Her phone slipped from her hand, clattered to the pavement. Her breath caught in her throat.

Her phone lay face down.

She crouched, picked it up. Wide cracks ran across the screen like broken glass in her chest.

“Damn it!” she growled.

“Oh, silly me! Please—my apologies!” a voice said behind her.

Candice rose, eyes fixed on the ruined screen.

Her mother’s voice buzzed faintly from the phone speaker. “Candice? What was that?”

“Someone bumped into me. It’s fine.”

She sighed and tried to laugh it off. “Mum, I know it’s been a while since I kept in touch. But I’m fine. You’ll see me soon, alright?”

Her mother softened. “Mummy misses you. Especially Paige. That dog’s been sleeping by your bedroom door for weeks. But… I’ll wait. Just for you.”

Candice smiled faintly. “Thanks, Mum. Talk soon. Bye.”

She hung up and wiped at the phone’s surface pointlessly, as if rubbing it could smooth over the fractures—on the screen, and inside her.

“…Damn it,” she muttered again.

“Hey… miss?” came the same man’s voice.

Candice didn’t turn. Her siren-brown eyes narrowed, lips a thin, unreadable line.

“I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to. I swear,” he said.

“No. It’s… fine,” she said curtly. “I was in the way.”

The man moved in front of her now.

He was handsome. White, tall, his short blond hair ruffled just slightly by the breeze. A clean beard lined his jaw. He wore a soft green shirt and casual white shorts, the kind of outfit that looked effortless on someone built like a swimmer. There was a faint scent of cologne on him—oaky, expensive, lingering.

But Candice wasn’t interested.

She was too cautious. Too calculating. People were unpredictable, and the world had taught her to be ready for the worst.

He glanced at the cracked screen in her hand. Guilt flickered in his pale blue eyes.

“Should I… help with that?” he offered.

Candice flinched, stepping back a bit.

“This? No. It’s nothing. Thank you, Mister.”

Without another word, she stepped into a waiting taxi. The man watched the vehicle pull away, then turned and walked off, a strange smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

—

The hours passed.

The taxi drove past the city’s sprawl, through hills and quiet suburbs, until it pulled up outside a modest, vine-covered building. A hand-painted sign read:

Dr. F.A. Ilesanmi – Therapist

Candice stepped out with her small yellow suitcase and handbag, stood before the gate for a moment, just breathing.

She had made this appointment weeks ago—after reading hundreds of online reviews about the woman. Some called her a miracle. Others, a mystery. People claimed she cured anxieties others couldn’t even name.

Candice had tried everything before.

But something about this one felt… different.

Inside, the consultation room was warm, decorated with Nigerian art, scented candles, and a distant aroma of lemongrass.

The therapist sat waiting. An older woman with salt-and-pepper hair in a neat twist, round glasses, and the kind of presence that made people feel both exposed and safe.

“Good morning, Candice Gbadamosi,” she said. “Tell me. What brings you here?”

Candice sat stiffly in the chair, clutching her damaged phone.

“I don’t know how to start this,” she said with a faint smile. “So I’ll just… go with whatever comes first.”

The therapist nodded patiently.

“Since I was a kid—maybe nine or twelve—I’ve felt things. Weird things. Like… something is always near me.”

She rubbed her fingers together nervously.

“I get this overwhelming sense of being watched. It’s not just paranoia—it feels real. Like someone’s behind me, breathing down my neck, most especially when I’m alone.”

The therapist leaned forward slightly, her expression calm, attentive.

“I’ve never seen anything. But sometimes, I feel… touches. Like fingertips in my hair. Someone brushing past me when no one’s there.”

Candice’s voice softened.

Her eyes locked onto the therapist’s.

“Do you think it’s a message? Or am I just… imagining things?”

The therapist let out a sharp exhale before replying.

“You see, Miss Candice,” she began carefully, “judging from your words and the experiences you’ve shared so far—this isn’t just your imagination. You’re not merely insecure or blindly searching for yourself. What you’re going through is... well, it’s normal in some ways.”

She paused, her voice soft but precise.

“It’s not uncommon to feel what you’ve felt. In fact, many people have come to me seeking healing at this same stage of their journey. But there’s never been proof—no clear evidence—of something like an invisible touch here and there. The mind—especially the human mind—works in mysterious ways. We’ve barely scratched the surface of what it’s capable of. It can make us act in ways we never thought we would, say things we haven’t spoken in years, see and feel what we should never have encountered again.”

She spoke with subtle gestures, trying to help Candice grasp the weight of her words.

“As I said, I’ve seen cases similar to yours—but this feeling of being touched by something unseen, that’s new. You experience these things because you believe you're always being watched, judged by the people around you. To reinforce that belief, your mind plays its own game of illusions. Tell me… was there any trauma? In your childhood, maybe? Or more recently?”

The old woman’s tone softened even more, now almost maternal.

“The world, Candice, has never been a safe place for the naïve. It never was, and it certainly isn’t now. But that doesn’t mean we should throw ourselves into every storm we encounter. My advice? Stay calm. Be at peace—with the world around you, yes, but also…”

She reached out, gently pointing to Candice’s chest.

“…in here.”

Then she raised her hand, tapping her temple with a faint smile.

“…and definitely, in here.”

Moments later, the taxi rolled to a stop.

“We’re here, ma’am,” the driver said, pulling Candice from her long trail of thought.

“Oh. Thanks,” she replied gracefully.

She stepped out, clutching her small yellow travel bag in one hand, her handbag slung neatly over her left shoulder. She gave the driver a parting wave as the car pulled away into the blur of city lights.

She turned to face her destination: a luxurious hotel nestled in the heart of the city—a place that shimmered on the outside but, for her, carried shadows. Here, Amy’s past—and Candice’s own—would rise again.

The last part of her conversation with the therapist lingered oddly in her mind. Unsettling. Odd. Almost cryptic.

“If you ever manage to find even a sliver of

proof that what you’re feeling is real…” the therapist had said, scribbling something onto a blank scrap of paper.

“…call me. Not a minute late. There’s an old friend I’d like you to meet.”