GHOSTS DON’T ALWAYS STAY BURIED

Rain finally came—unapologetic and wild. It beat against the roof of Zainab's atelier like drumming fists, like someone trying to get back in.

She was alone that evening, bent over her sketchbook, drawing a new design.

The thunder sounded too familiar.

So did the silence that followed.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown number. No name.

The message read:

"You stitched the nation's eyes open… but you forgot something:I trained the tailor who taught you.

Zainab froze.

She read it again. And again.

The world around her narrowed to those words.

She ran outside, soaked instantly.She checked the compound—empty.But something shimmered faintly in the puddle by her gate.

A single sewing pin.

Gold. Heavy. Custom-made.

Her master used to carry one exactly like that—years ago in Kaduna before the riots, before he vanished.

He was the one who taught her how to thread a torn hem, how to stitch a lie so beautifully it looked like the truth.

But he was supposed to be dead.

Zainab stepped back into the atelier.Locked the doors. Closed the windows.

Then sat on the floor, back against the wall, heart pounding like a trapped bird.

"What if I didn't finish the story?What if there's still one more chapter I didn't write?"

Obi arrived a few minutes later.

He didn't knock. He knew something was wrong from the tone of her last message: "Come now. Alone."

He saw the pin.Read the message.Then looked at her.

"You think it's really him?"

Zainab didn't answer immediately.

Then she whispered:

"If it is…Then I wasn't the first whisper in this system.I was just the echo."