I WAS JUST A SERVANT

Two days had passed since the letter arrived.

Zenande hadn't left her bedroom. It wasn't fear that kept her inside—it was calculation. There was a shift in her now, one that Nokwanda noticed immediately. The woman who once reacted impulsively, fueled by pride and emotional wounds, had begun to think, to observe, and to protect. Her silence wasn't cold anymore; it was purposeful.

Nokwanda admired the shift.

Zenande was still proud. But now she was something more: intentional. She carried a quiet strength in her voice, a depth behind her gaze. The softness hadn't vanished; it had evolved into a fierce calm.

That morning, Nokwanda entered the room with two cups of rooibos tea and a softness in her step, like she didn't want to startle the peace that had begun to settle. She found Zenande seated by the window, her blanket loosely draped across her lap. Her eyes were far off, watching the morning mist roll over the gardens like slow smoke.

"Your legs responded well again this morning," Nokwanda said, placing the tray down beside the bed.

Zenande didn't look away from the window. "It still feels like I'm carrying someone else's body."

Nokwanda gently smiled. "You're carrying your own strength. Even when you can't feel it, it's yours."

Zenande finally looked at her, long and deliberate. "How do you always know what to say?"

Nokwanda tilted her head slightly. "Because I listen even when you're not speaking."

The stillness between them thickened—not with tension, but with something intimate, unspoken.

Zenande turned back to the window. "Do you think love is supposed to be easy?"

Nokwanda took a seat across from her. "No. But I think it should be honest."

A quiet nod.

Zenande reached for her tea but hesitated midway. "I never had honesty in my marriage. He loved what I looked like. He loved what I represented. Not who I was inside."

Nokwanda responded, her voice low, "And now?"

Zenande glanced at her. "Now I'm trying to let someone love the soul I hid for so long. But it scares me."

She didn't say Nokwanda's name.

She didn't have to.

That night, the mansion was silent.

Nokwanda helped Zenande into bed. She adjusted the pillows gently, smoothed the blanket over her legs, and moved to step away. But something rooted her to the spot. Her heart wouldn't let her walk out.

Zenande noticed. "What is it?"

Nokwanda hesitated, then stepped closer to the bed. "I was just thinking... I don't know where this ends. I don't know how much time we'll have. But I know what I want."

Zenande's throat tightened. "What do you want?"

Nokwanda knelt beside her. "To stay by your side. Even when you're difficult. Even when the world doesn't understand us. Even when you try to push me away."

Zenande searched her face. "Why?"

"Because I've never been seen like this before," Nokwanda said. "And I've never loved like this either."

For a long moment, Zenande didn't move.

Then, quietly, she reached up and touched Nokwanda's cheek. Her fingers trailed behind her neck and gently pulled her forward. Their foreheads met—warm, trembling.

Zenande whispered, "Stay."

Nokwanda closed her eyes. "I'm here."

And in that shared breath, something shifted.

Not lust.

Not fear.

But love.

The next morning arrived with overcast skies and a strange silence in the air.

The security guard at the front gate noticed the envelope taped neatly to the wrought iron fence. It had no address. No stamp. Just NOKWANDA written across the front in red ink.

Inside was a single photograph.

It showed Nokwanda in a passionate embrace with a woman.

A woman whose wedding ring glinted in the sunlight.

On the back, scrawled in thick red marker:

SECRETS ALWAYS COME BACK.

The guard, unaware of its weight, delivered it to the house without hesitation.

Zenande found it on her breakfast tray.

She didn't react immediately. She studied the photo. Not because she was shocked, but because she understood what this was: a threat.

Nokwanda was in the kitchen, unaware.

Zenande placed the photo back into the envelope and slid it under her pillow.

Later, when Nokwanda entered the room to clear her dishes, Zenande watched her closely.

"Did you ever love her?" Zenande asked, voice calm but sharp.

Nokwanda blinked. "What?"

"The married woman. The one who left you."

Silence.

Then Nokwanda sat down slowly. "I thought I did. She made me feel seen… for the first time. But she was never mine to keep."

Zenande pulled out the photograph and handed it to her.

Nokwanda paled. "Where did you get this?"

"It was left for you. But I received it first."

Her eyes narrowed. "Someone wants to stir something. Someone from your past."

Nokwanda nodded. "That photo's old. Two years ago. Her husband found out. She ended it. I never looked back."

Zenande reached for her hand. "We all have ghosts. What matters is whether we let them in the house."

Nokwanda squeezed her fingers. "Then lock the doors, Zenande. Because I'm not leaving."

Neither of them noticed the new cleaner passing the open hallway quietly, pushing a cart of linens. Her uniform was perfect. Her face familiar—to Nokwanda, if she had only turned her head.

She walked slowly down the corridor.

Smiling.

Watching.

Waiting.