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Chapter 2 - Chapter Two: A Place at the Table

The village stirred early.

Roosters crowed in the distance, and the scent of wood smoke drifted into Jane's room through the slatted window. Her mother was already up, humming softly as she swept the compound, the same way she had since Jane was a girl. It should have brought comfort. Instead, Jane felt the dull ache of disconnection—like watching her life from the outside.

She lay in bed longer than she should have, listening to the rhythm of the broom on packed earth, the murmurs of her parents in the kitchen, the world continuing as if nothing had broken inside her.

But something had.

She finally dressed and wandered to the veranda, where her father sat on a low stool peeling oranges.

"You're quiet," he said without looking up.

"I'm tired," Jane replied, her voice small.

"You're grieving," he corrected gently. "That's not the same thing."

She didn't respond. He handed her a peeled orange.

"Go walk. This place has a way of softening hard things."

Jane took the fruit and left, unsure where her feet would carry her—until she realized she knew exactly where she was going.

---

The beach looked different in the morning light—less mysterious, more alive. Fishermen hauled in nets further down the shore, and seabirds circled overhead.

She saw Ezinne before the girl saw her.

The child was crouched over a tide pool, completely focused on the tiny creatures within. Jane smiled. There was something magnetic about the girl—a quiet joy that refused to be dulled.

Then came the voice again.

"You came back."

Jane turned and found him—the father. He stood a few meters away, arms crossed, barefoot in the sand. His shirt was slightly damp, as if he'd just come from pulling in nets himself. Up close, he looked even more grounded. Not handsome in a polished way, but solid—like someone who stayed when things got hard.

"I wanted to see the water again," Jane said.

He nodded. "Ezinne said you might come for dinner."

Jane hesitated. "I didn't want to intrude. I know it was sudden."

"She's persistent when she wants something," he said, almost smiling. "Besides, we don't get many visitors."

A pause.

"I'm Chuka," he added, finally offering his name.

"Jane."

They stood in silence, the waves between them. Then Ezinne ran up, beaming.

"You came! Did Papa say yes? You'll come, right?"

Jane looked at Chuka.

He gave a small shrug. "If you're free."

She laughed softly. "I guess I am."

---

That evening, Jane found herself pacing her parents' room as she chose something to wear. It wasn't a date. It wasn't anything.

But it felt like something.

She settled on a pale sundress, let her hair fall naturally, and walked down the winding path with hesitant steps. The scent of spices hit her before the cottage came into view.

Chuka's home was modest—a single-level house with blue-painted shutters and a verandah filled with potted herbs. Ezinne stood at the gate, jumping up and down.

"She's here!"

Inside, the table was already set. Candles flickered. A bowl of steaming jollof rice sat in the center beside grilled fish and a plate of sliced mangoes.

Chuka moved quietly in the kitchen, dishing out food like a man used to doing everything himself.

They sat. They ate. And slowly, words began to bloom between bites.

Jane learned Chuka had grown up here, left for Lagos once, then came back with a woman who couldn't stay. Ezinne was all he had left of that chapter. He asked about Jane's job, her city life, her reasons for returning.

She told half-truths. Just enough to answer. Just enough to protect the ache inside her.

After dinner, Ezinne fell asleep on the couch, one hand still holding Jane's scarf like a security blanket. Chuka picked her up gently and carried her to bed.

When he returned, he leaned on the doorframe, arms folded again.

"Whatever brought you back," he said, "you don't have to carry it alone."

Jane looked up at him, startled.

"I don't even know what to sa

y."

"You don't have to. Just come back again."

She nodded.

Outside, the sea whispered on.

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