The sky was a blanket of brooding gray. Clouds hung low, pregnant with fury, as if the heavens themselves were mourning something not yet lost. A violent wind howled through the town, rattling rooftops and tearing clothes from lines. Thunder cracked like a whip across the sky, and lightning danced with blinding rage. Rain poured down, not in drops, but in sheets—angry, wild, and unrelenting. Buckets rolled, chairs toppled, and people watched helplessly from their windows, unwilling to brave the storm to rescue their belongings.
Inside a small, modest room, Ada sat cross-legged on a bamboo mat, chewing on a stale piece of bread she'd bought three days earlier. Her eyes occasionally drifted to the door, then to the window, as if hoping to see her daughter, Golden, sprinting home from church rehearsal, soaked but safe.
But hours passed.
The storm eventually ceased, leaving a strange silence in its wake. The wind had fallen still. The sky, now a soft pastel blue, seemed too calm—as though it had forgotten its rage. Birds began to chirp again. Life was creeping back. Ada, who had drifted into an uneasy nap, was stirred awake by a knock on the door.
She opened it slowly, expecting perhaps a neighbor, maybe Golden herself. But what met her was a trembling young woman, surrounded by a somber crowd—men, women, some crying, others looking down.
"He-he-hello Mama Gold..." the woman stammered, her voice brittle with fear.
Ada's eyes narrowed. "What is it? Hope there's no problem?"
The woman didn't answer. Behind her, Ada noticed the crowd. About twenty people, standing as though waiting for someone to take charge, many weeping. Unease grew in her belly.
Ada's voice sharpened. "I said—what is the problem?!"
The young woman dissolved into sobs. "We… we went outside… to pick our things that the flood swept away… and... and under the bridge, we saw a... a body... we moved closer and it—it was—"
Ada didn't let her finish. Her heart slammed against her ribs.
"To be WHO?!" she screamed, pushing the woman aside. She lunged into the crowd and grabbed a man by his collar. "You! You're a man, stop crying like a child! Tell me what's going on!"
The man pointed behind him, unable to speak. Ada pushed past him, each step heavier than the last.
Then she saw it.
A small body, soaked in muddy rainwater, laid beneath a white sheet. Her dress—Golden's favorite yellow one—peeked out from beneath it. Her shoes, the ones she had worn to church. Her hair, matted against her cheek.
Ada's scream tore through the village. "NOOOOOO!"
She collapsed beside her daughter's body and everything faded to black.
A Week Later...
The house was filled with the smell of burning incense and sorrow. Mourners sat with long faces, whispering among themselves. The air was thick with mourning, but even thicker with fear.
Papa Chuks, the community elder, stood beside Ada who hadn't spoken much since the burial. His voice was soft but steady.
"I would urge you to stop crying, Mama Gold. Everything happens for a reason. Golden was a beautiful soul—so kind, so full of faith. She's with God now. Nothing happens without His knowledge."
Silence. Then slowly, Ada rose.
She left the room without a word and returned moments later.
Holding a machete.
The crowd gasped.
"Ewooo... Ada, what is this?" Papa Chuks asked, backing away. "What do you want to do with that?"
Her eyes burned.
"To kill anyone who dares mention God again." Her voice was not raised, but it vibrated with fury. "What did you say, Papa? That nothing happens without His knowledge? Oh, so He knew, huh? He knew my daughter would go out and not come back? She went to His house—the church! And He let her die? Tell me, where was He?!"
She pointed the machete around the room. People lowered their heads.
"If He truly exists, why did He take the only light in my life? My child? Don't any of you dare say His name again. Not here. Not in my hearing. Because He. Does. Not. Exist!"
Tears streamed down her cheeks, but her grip on the machete never faltered.
No one dared respond. Slowly, quietly, one by one, the mourners began to leave, heads bowed, silence heavy. Even Ada's husband, trying gently to calm her, stepped back—his words falling flat against her wall of rage.
And in that small house where once laughter rang, now only silence and the sharp breath of grief remained.