The morning started like any other. Roosters, distant laughter, the faint hum of a generator from somewhere that shouldn't even afford one.
But something in the air felt wrong. Still.
Olivia woke up to find a folded brown envelope at her doorstep. The kind used for official postings.
Her fingers trembled as she picked it up.
The letter was for Chidera.
"Reassignment Notice."
Her heart dropped before her mind could even make sense of it.
She ran outside, her scarf barely tied. He was sitting under the tree, reading the same paper she was holding.
"You're leaving?" she asked, voice tight.
He looked up, calm but tired. "The ministry needs me back in the city. My cover's getting too complicated here."
"So that's it?"
He stood up. "It's not my choice, Olivia. I didn't even ask for it."
She wanted to shout, to cry, to laugh at the absurdity of it. He'd lied his way into her life, messed it up, fixed it, and now he was just… leaving.
"Must be nice," she said bitterly. "You get to leave whenever it suits you. Some of us don't have that luxury."
He sighed. "You think I want to leave? You think this is easy for me?"
Silence. The kind that hurt more than words.
That afternoon, they stood in front of the lodge — the same place where everything had begun. The same dusty yard, the same smell of burnt firewood.
"Maybe it's for the best," Olivia said, arms folded, trying to sound unaffected. "You were never supposed to be here anyway."
He raised an eyebrow. "So you want me gone?"
"I didn't say that."
"Then what do you want, Olivia?"
She opened her mouth but no sound came. The words stuck like stones in her throat.
He dropped his bag and walked closer. "You're angry because you care. You hate that I lied, but you hate even more that you don't hate me."
"Stop talking like you know me!"
"I do know you. I've seen you angry, scared, hungry, tired… and still, you stand. You think that's nothing?"
Her eyes burned. "Why couldn't you just tell me who you were?"
"Because you'd never have listened to a minister's son."
That shut her up.
He was right — she would've dismissed him as another privileged boy playing savior.
He picked up his bag and gave a small smile. "I'll write you."
"Don't bother."
"I will anyway," he said, and turned toward the bus waiting at the junction.
She didn't follow. But when the dust rose as the bus drove off, she realized something horrifying — her chest ached. Not from anger this time, but from loss.
The days crawled.
The village felt emptier without him, though nothing had really changed. Same broken walls. Same noisy children. Same mosquitoes that refused to die.
But the evenings — those were the worst.
That was when she used to argue with him over firewood, laugh over burnt yam, or just sit under the moon and talk about nothing.
Now, she sat alone, clutching the small note he'd slipped into her hand before he left,
"For what it's worth, you changed me too."
No signature. Just that.
She folded it neatly and tucked it into her diary. Then, for the first time in a long while, she whispered a prayer — not for escape, not for light or comfort, but for him.
Because somewhere between the wrong bus and the wrong posting, something had gone right.