I WAS JUST A SERVANT

Zenande woke to the sound of birdsong and silence. A strange, careful silence — the kind that follows heavy words and sleepless nights. She blinked against the morning light filtering through the sheer curtains, unsure of what time it was, unsure of whether Nokwanda was still in the house.

A soft knock at the door.

She didn't answer.

A pause. Then it creaked open slowly.

Nokwanda stepped in. She looked pale but composed, her eyes slightly puffy, but her jaw was set. In her hands, she held a notebook — not the photo, not tea — just something handwritten and bound in worn leather.

"I wrote this a long time ago," Nokwanda said softly. "It's everything I never said to anyone. About her. About me. I want you to have it. You don't have to read it now. Or ever. But I needed you to know that I don't want to live in silence anymore."

Zenande sat up in bed, sheets still clutched around her like armor. She didn't reach for the book. But she didn't look away either.

"Thank you," she said, voice hoarse.

Nokwanda gave a small nod, then turned to leave. But Zenande stopped her.

"Stay. Please."

They sat together on the bed — quiet, but close. Nokwanda reached out and slowly laced their fingers together.

For the first time in hours, Zenande let herself exhale. It wasn't forgiveness, not yet — but it was the first breath toward it.

Later that day, Zenande walked the property, trying to clear her head. The gravel crunched beneath her sandals, and the smell of wet leaves lingered from a recent rain. She needed distance from the walls and the photograph. From betrayal. From forgiveness. From the weight of truth finally spoken.

As she neared the back gate, she noticed something odd: the lock, slightly ajar. Her body tensed.

She glanced around. Nothing looked disturbed — but the cleaner's mop bucket sat outside, far from where it was usually stored.

Something wasn't right.

She stepped inside and called out, "Nokwanda?"

No answer.

Her gut twisted.

Inside the main house, Nokwanda was making tea when she felt it — the air shift. Like someone had just entered a room without making a sound.

She turned.

The cleaner was standing in the doorway, holding a small blade.

"I thought you'd be smarter than this," the woman said. "Love always makes fools out of the clever ones."

Nokwanda took a step back, her heartbeat spiking. "Who are you?"

"Oh, I'm just a servant," the woman said, mimicking Nokwanda's voice mockingly. "Just someone who mops your floors and learns your habits."

Nokwanda's eyes flicked toward the hallway. Escape.

The woman followed her gaze. "Don't bother. She won't get here in time."

Zenande heard the crash of glass and the sharp cry before her feet could think.

She sprinted inside, heart hammering, vision narrowing.

Nokwanda was on the floor, the cleaner above her, arm raised.

Zenande didn't hesitate. She grabbed the heavy iron candleholder from the side table and swung.

It connected with a sickening thud.

The cleaner dropped.

Breathing hard, Zenande kicked the blade away and dropped beside Nokwanda.

"Are you okay?"

Nokwanda nodded shakily. "She knew everything, Zenande. She'd been watching. Listening."

Zenande looked at the woman on the floor, now unconscious and bleeding. "We need to call the police. Now."

Three hours later, the woman was in custody. The police had found forged documents, a burner phone, and photos of Zenande and Nokwanda dating back months. She wasn't a cleaner. She was a hired spy.

"Someone sent her," the officer said. "We're looking into her contacts now."

Zenande and Nokwanda sat side by side on the couch, the room around them trashed, but their hands still held tight.

"We're going to be okay," Zenande said, her voice trembling slightly.

Nokwanda leaned her head against her shoulder. "As long as we don't lie to each other again."

Zenande kissed the top of her head. "Never again."

That night, under the safety of their own roof, they lay close. Every wound still fresh, every breath heavy with what they'd survived.

Zenande turned to Nokwanda and whispered, "Let's tell our story before someone else does."

Nokwanda looked into her eyes. "Together."

Zenande nodded.

And somewhere in that moment — despite the fear, the shadows, and the scars — a beginning was born.