Joey stepped off the train at Nairobi Station, the city humming around her. She wore a linen dress, her hair tied back, her eyes clear.
She didn't call anyone.
She walked through familiar streets, noticing what had changed. A new mural on River Road. A café where the old bookstore used to be. A child chasing pigeons near Jeevanjee Gardens.
She smiled.
At home, Miriam greeted her with a hug and tears. "You look... different."
"I feel different," Joey said.
They sat on the balcony, sipping wine. Joey told her about Asha, the letters, the silence.
Miriam listened. "So what now?"
Joey shrugged. "I live. I write. I breathe."
Later that week, Joey visited an art gallery. A new exhibit had opened—Fragments of Us by Zed Mwangi.
She wandered through the space, heart steady, until she saw it.
Letters Never Sent.
She stood before the canvas, breath caught.
She saw herself. Not literally. But spiritually.
She whispered, "He understood."
She didn't text him. She didn't call.
She left a note with the gallery curator:
> It's beautiful. Thank you for seeing me. —J
Then she walked out into the Nairobi sun, her story still unfolding.