The night air in Kololo was still, but inside James Mugeni's house, nothing was quiet. Not in his mind. Not in the spaces between the things he didn't say.
He stood by the window in his room, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up, holding a glass of untouched water. The lights of Kampala flickered in the distance like restless thoughts. His phone buzzed once. A message from Shinta.
> "She left with you again. Be careful."
He didn't reply.
He simply locked the screen, placed the phone on the table, and walked back to the bookshelf.
There it was again.
That pink umbrella.
Still folded. Still waiting.
Just like the part of himself he hadn't allowed to feel anything in years.
Until now.
---
Sandra sat in the front seat of James's car, arms wrapped around herself. The ride had been silent since they left the board dinner. The driver said nothing. James, seated in the back, only looked out the window.
When they reached her gate in Kanyanya, the driver stopped.
Sandra turned in her seat.
"Thank you for tonight," she said.
James nodded once. "You don't have to thank me."
"I want to."
He leaned forward slightly. "Sandra."
She looked at him.
There was so much in his eyes.
But all he said was, "Go inside. Lock the door."
She hesitated, then stepped out. The cold air hit her like a wave. She walked up the dusty path to the small gate, her heels clicking softly on uneven ground.
When she looked back, the car was still there.
And James was still watching.
She closed the gate behind her and whispered to herself, "Why do you look at me like that?"
But no one answered.
---
Morning in Kanyanya was different.
You could hear the hens next door before the sun was fully up. You could smell the charcoal stove before your eyes even opened. And on this particular morning, Sandra didn't want to open hers.
She sat on the edge of her bed, still in her dress from the dinner. Immy had already gone to the shop to buy milk and airtime.
Her mother was in the other room, quietly folding Junior's clothes. Sandra could hear her humming.
And then she heard the coughing.
Violent.
Too sharp.
She ran to the doorway.
Junior was on the floor, holding his chest.
"Mum!" she screamed. "Mum, come! It's happening again!"
They rushed to him, lifting him gently onto the mattress. His breathing was shallow. His fingers cold. His eyes wide with fear.
"Mummy," he whispered, "I can't breathe."
Sandra grabbed the medicine bag.
Empty.
Her mother's eyes filled with panic. "We don't have the injections anymore. We need a refill."
Sandra's heart sank. "But the clinic—last time they said—"
"They need cash."
Sandra didn't think.
She grabbed her bag, ran outside, flagged a boda, and told the rider, "Take me to Kololo. Fast. J&M Holdings."
---
James was reviewing documents when his phone lit up.
Unknown number.
He ignored it.
Then his desk phone rang.
It was Sandra.
Reception had put her through.
"I'm downstairs," she said breathlessly. "I—can I speak to you? Please."
James stood immediately.
When she entered, she looked nothing like she had the night before.
No makeup. No heels. Hair tied back. Breath heavy.
"Junior," she said. "He's not breathing well. We don't have the injections."
James didn't ask how much.
He opened his drawer, pulled out a plain white envelope, and handed it to her.
"No questions," he said softly.
She took it with shaking hands. "I'll pay you back—"
"You won't."
He walked her to the elevator. As the doors closed, she looked at him through the glass.
There was something in her eyes.
It wasn't gratitude.
It was something heavier.
---
That evening, back at the small clinic in Kanyanya, Sandra sat beside Junior's bed while he finally slept. The medicine had worked fast. His breathing was softer now. His fingers warmer.
Her mum returned with a flask of porridge.
"He's okay," she said quietly. "For now."
Sandra nodded. She stared at the white envelope on the table. James hadn't even asked how much. He just gave. Like it was nothing.
But it wasn't nothing.
It was everything.
Her mother looked at the envelope. "Who helped us?"
Sandra hesitated. "A friend."
Her mother gave a small smile. "Then thank God for that friend."
Sandra looked at the ceiling and whispered, "I'm trying."
---
At the office the next day, James didn't speak to her.
But when she brought in his coffee, she noticed it.
The mug was already warm.
He had made her one too.
It was sitting beside his.
Green tea. No sugar. Just like she liked it.
She didn't ask.
He didn't offer.
They sat in silence, both sipping.
The sound of pages turning was the only thing between them.
But that was enough.
---
A few days later, Immy found Sandra staring at the ceiling again.
"Are you in love with him?" she asked.
Sandra said nothing.
Immy threw a pillow at her. "Answer me!"
Sandra finally whispered, "He's too far from me. I can't reach him."
Immy shook her head. "Maybe. But you're the only person he lets touch his silence."
---
James sat in his office staring at a photo no one else had seen in years.
It was his father.
Back when the shop still stood in Mbale. Before the rain. Before the loss.
There were days he hated that photo.
And days he wished he could fall into it.
Today, he stared at it for a long time.
Then picked up his phone.
He typed.
> Find out if Sandra's brother can be moved to a better facility. Quietly. Make sure the bills come to me.
Then he closed the phone.
And stared out the window.
Because it was easier to look at the city than into his own heart.
---
Friday came with a dull sky.
Rain threatened but didn't fall.
Sandra sat beside James in a car heading to a project site inspection in Muyenga. It was the first time they'd traveled together during work hours.
She stared out the window.
James watched her from the corner of his eye.
"You're quiet," he said.
She nodded. "I'm thinking."
"About?"
She hesitated. "Why you're helping me."
He didn't answer.
She turned to him. "I want to understand."
He finally said, "You're the only person who doesn't expect anything from me."
"I expect honesty."
He turned fully to her now.
"That's the hardest thing to give."
They sat in silence for the rest of the drive.
But when they arrived, he placed a hand on her shoulder before stepping out.
And she froze.
Because even through the fabric, she felt it.
The tremble.
---
Later that night, she found a folded note in her handbag.
No name.
Just a line.
> "Don't ever cry in front of people. It makes them strong."
She pressed it to her chest.
And for the first time in weeks, she cried.
But not from weakness.
From the ache of knowing—
She was falling for a man who had forgotten how to let anyone in.