Chapter 8: Between Ashes and Hope.

After wiping the last tear from her cheeks, Zaria picked up the basin and quietly walked to the washing area beside the bathroom hut. The night had grown colder. The stars blinked above like silent witnesses, and the moon hung low, as if it, too, were burdened by a heavy heart.

She filled the basin with cold water and walked into the cramped bathing shelter. The structure was barely more than sheets of old iron nailed together, patched with pieces of tarp to block out the wind. She set the basin down, undressed quickly, and splashed the icy water over her skin.

The chill was biting, but it did little to numb the ache within her.

She scrubbed her arms in silence, her thoughts louder than ever.

Why me?

Why is it always me?

What did I do to deserve this kind of life?

The questions came one after another, each heavier than the last. She closed her eyes as the water ran down her face, washing away the smoke, sweat, and traces of tears—but not the pain.

Her heart felt like a tightly knotted rope, and tonight, the tension had pulled too far.

She leaned her forehead against the metal wall and whispered, "God, what did I do wrong?"

There was no answer. Just the quiet dripping of water, echoing like sadness.

Her mind returned to her parents—her real parents. The ones who had brought her into this world but had done so without preparing a space for her to truly belong. Her father, a serious man with few words, had never truly embraced her as a daughter. He provided the basics when he could—school fees, sometimes books—but not affection. Not warmth. Not love.

He had told her once that her mother was a "mistake." That their relationship had not been planned. Her existence had come from an affair—one night, one choice that neither of them wanted to revisit.

Her mother had stayed for a little while after Zaria was born. But when the weight of being "the other woman" became too much, she left. Left Zaria with the man she once loved, hoping perhaps he would raise their child out of duty. But that duty was quickly passed on to his official wife—Sarah.

And Zaria had paid the price for that mistake every day since.

"Was I a curse?" she whispered to the shadows.

Her lips trembled as the question escaped.

"Was I something they regret?" she asked, more to herself than to anyone else.

The pain in her chest tightened. She had never voiced these thoughts out loud. She had never dared to give them shape. But tonight, the silence pressed too hard. The truth could no longer stay buried.

"If they didn't love me… why did they have me at all?"

She thought of her father. How he only visited once every few months, leaving behind a small brown envelope with notes and coins for school, sometimes forgetting her size when buying shoes. He rarely called. And even when he did, it was just to ask if she was "managing." No questions about her dreams. No talk about how she felt.

And her mother… Zaria didn't even know where she lived now. She had only seen her once, years ago, in the town center. Her mother had been with a man and a little boy, holding the boy's hand tightly, looking nothing like the woman who once sang lullabies on rainy nights.

Zaria remembered how she'd called out—"Mama!"—and how the woman had turned, hesitated, and then quickly walked away.

That was the day Zaria realized she had been left behind long before she even knew what abandonment was.

She rinsed off, the final bucket of water pouring over her like a cold baptism. She wrapped her towel tightly around her small body and stepped into the night. The wind kissed her skin, and she shivered—not just from cold, but from truth.

When she entered the house again, she moved quietly past the living room, where the TV buzzed low with a late-night soap opera, and slipped back into her bedroom.

She sat on the edge of her bed, pulling her blanket around her like armor. The room was still, and only the ticking of the old wall clock could be heard.

She looked toward the pillow where her diary was tucked away but didn't reach for it. Not yet.

Instead, she whispered to the silence, "I pray that tomorrow… when I go to school… I'll find Teacher Lillian. Even if school officially starts on Monday. Maybe she'll be there early."

She closed her eyes tightly. That small hope—thin as thread—was all she had.

She had always admired Teacher Lillian, a woman who walked into the classroom with her head high, her clothes always neat and pressed, her smile genuine. Unlike Sarah, unlike the girls at school who sneered at Zaria's worn shoes and frayed collars, Teacher Lillian saw through things. She had once told Zaria after a class test, "Your mind is strong, Zaria. Don't let your circumstances trick you into believing you're weak."

Zaria had held on to those words like a secret promise.

Maybe, if she talked to her teacher, things could change. Maybe she could find a way to start the term. Even if it meant sweeping classrooms, fetching water, or borrowing her friend's uniform. Anything. She just wanted to be in school. To learn. To grow. To escape.

She reached for her diary now, slowly opening it to a blank page.

> June 6th

I've cried more today than I have in a long time. I feel like the world doesn't want me. Like I'm nothing but a shadow in a house where no one sees me. But I also feel… something small inside me. Maybe it's faith. Or stubbornness. Or just hope. I want to see Teacher Lillian tomorrow. Maybe she'll listen. Maybe she'll understand. Please, God… let her be there.

She closed the diary, gently sliding it back under her pillow. Her body felt heavy, but her spirit was still breathing—faint, but alive.

She lay down, the old mattress creaking beneath her weight. Outside, the night deepened. A distant dog barked. The crickets sang on.

And in the silence, Zaria whispered one last prayer into the darkness.

"Please… let tomorrow be different.