Unlike the neat brick walls that enclosed most homes in St. Leo, in Iza's aunt's home, nature ruled in orderly chaos. The perimeter was marked by a dense hedge of roses and thorny bushes, topped with ordinary barbed wire that had rusted to a deep brown over the years.

The barbed wire gate groaned like a wounded animal when Iza pushed it open. Nze paused, frowning. The metal was twisted into patterns—elegant but unsettling—as though someone had written a message meant to be read only by the shadows it cast. The wire caught the harsh Sunday sun and cast shadows that moved independently of the light's angle.

Inside, the compound opened into what appeared to be a well-planned garden maze.

"How does she keep up with all this?" Nze asked, brushing past a low-hanging rose branch.

Iza smiled faintly, stepping carefully to avoid crushing a patch of moss beneath her sandals. Roses dominated the landscape—deep reds, pale pinks, and the occasional white bloom—their fragrance heavy in the humid air, as if the garden itself was breathing. The paths were laid with packed earth, occasionally interrupted by patches of moss or stepping stones that seemed to have been placed with peculiar precision.

"Stay close," Iza cautioned, leading the way. "It's easy to get turned around in here."

Nze noticed how the shadows seemed just a touch longer than they should be, how certain flowers appeared to face them no matter their position. The paths branched and merged in patterns that, while not impossible to navigate, suggested a geometry that made his head hurt if he thought about it too long.

They passed several clearings as they walked. One housed a small herb garden where sage, rosemary, and what might have been mugwort grew in concentric circles. Another contained a modest birdbath, its water mirror-still despite the afternoon breeze. A wind chime hung nearby, its soft notes somehow carrying clearly despite the dense foliage that should have muffled the sound.

"Your aunt tends all this herself?" Nze asked, noting how immaculately maintained everything was despite the sprawling size of the garden.

"Mostly," Iza replied with a slight smile. "She says the garden knows what it likes."

Nze tried to understand what that meant.

Through the gaps in the hedges, Nze caught glimpses of the house at the center of it all. Its weathered wood and faded paint should have been ordinary, but the angles played tricks on his eyes, shifting slightly whenever he looked away, as though the house was deciding how much of itself to reveal.

Clay pots lined the porch, filled with plants he couldn't name, their leaves rustling in patterns that didn't quite match the wind's direction.

As they approached the house, a cat watched them from its perch on the porch railing—coat as black as wet ink, eyes reflecting the sunlight in a way that made them look like amber coins. It didn't startle when they drew near, merely following their movement with an unblinking gaze that felt weightier than it should.

The afternoon heat pressed down on them, but beneath the shadow of the house's eaves, the air turned notably cooler. A collection of dried herbs hung from the porch ceiling, and Nze caught the faint scent of something burning—not quite incense, not quite wood smoke—drifting from somewhere inside.

It was, Nze thought, a perfectly normal garden compound, if you didn't look too closely at the shadows, or think too hard about the way the paths seemed to lead exactly where you needed to go, or question why no insects buzzed among the flowers despite the abundance of blooms. But then again, this was St. Leo, where "normal" had always been a relative term.

The wooden stairs creaked under their feet as they climbed to the elevated bungalow. Iza pushed open the front door with the familiarity of someone who had done so countless times before. The interior was cooler, with sunlight filtering through cream-colored curtains, casting soft patterns on the polished wooden floor.

"Aunt Oby!" Iza called out, her voice echoing through the house.

"Come to the backyard, my loves!" A melodious voice responded from somewhere beyond the kitchen.

They made their way through the living room, where family photos lined the walls and potted ferns occupied corners. The corridor led them past closed doors, their brass handles gleaming, and through a kitchen that smelled of herbs and something sweet baking in the oven. The back door opened to a small veranda with wooden steps leading down to the backyard.

There she was—Aunt Oby, kneeling by a bed of lilies, wearing a flowing dress printed with sunflowers and daisies. Her hair was a crown of intricate braids, each one ending in a cowrie shell that caught the light, with silver rings woven throughout the plaits. When she stood and turned to face them, Nze was struck by her youthful appearance—her skin smooth and radiant, her movements graceful and light. If Iza hadn't told him her age on their way over, he would have thought her barely twenty-five.

She embraced Iza first, holding her niece tight and planting a kiss on her forehead. Then her eyes found Nze, and something flickered in them—recognition, memory, and a deep warmth that caught him off guard.

"And you must be Arinze," she said softly, her voice catching slightly. Before he could respond, she had wrapped him in a hug that felt startlingly familiar. When she pulled back, tears glistened in her eyes. "You look exactly like your mother," she whispered, one hand gently touching his cheek. "The same eyes, the same gentle spirit."

Nze felt a lump form in his throat. Here was someone else who had known his mother, someone who saw her in his face.

"Come, come," she said, quickly wiping her eyes and gesturing toward a small table set up under a flowering pergola. "Sit with me. I've made zobo and just pulled some chin-chin from the oven." She moved with practiced ease, arranging glasses and plates. "The zobo has a special blend of hibiscus and lemongrass from my garden. An old recipe your mother and I used to make when we were young," she added, glancing at Nze with a soft smile.

The pergola offered perfect shade from the afternoon sun, and climbing jasmine filled the air with its sweet scent. As Aunt Oby poured the deep red zobo into glasses, her rings caught the sunlight, sending tiny rainbow reflections dancing across the table's surface.

"How close were you with my mother?" Nze asked, his fingers wrapped around the cool glass of zobo. The question had been sitting on his tongue since Aunt Oby's emotional greeting.

Aunt Oby's eyes softened, looking past them into memory. "Rebecca and I were sisters in every way but blood, inseparable since secondary school." Aunt Oby's voice softened, as if sifting through memories. "Your mother was always singing, always laughing, even when the world tried to silence her."

Her face clouded, the kind of storm that builds slowly but doesn't leave. "When she got pregnant with you at eighteen, your grandfather..." She hesitated, her words careful, like stepping on shards of glass. "Solomon Nduka was a man who valued his reputation more than anything else. He was the kind of man people pointed to in church and said, 'That's who you should be.' Board member at Holy Cross, elder in the congregation, pillar of the community, all of that. And an unmarried, pregnant daughter?" She shook her head, the weight of it heavy. "Unthinkable."

"He threw her out?" Nze asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Right into the rainy season," Aunt Oby said, her tone sharp with an anger too old to burn but too strong to fade. "She came to us that night, soaked through, crying like the rain was hers alone. My mother didn't even blink. Just pulled her inside, wrapped her in a blanket, and said, 'This is your home now.'" A small, soft smile found its way to her lips. "And it was. You were born right here, in what's now my study. I was there, you know. I saw you take your first breath."

She reached across the table and squeezed Nze's hand. "For two years, this was your world. You learned to walk in that garden maze out front. Rebecca would carry you through the flowers every evening, singing those old Igbo lullabies." Her voice grew distant. "You were such a happy baby, always laughing at the butterflies..."

"What changed?" Nze asked, his voice barely above a whisper. A chill settled in his chest as he braced for the answer, the image of a laughing baby in a garden suddenly feeling fragile, like a memory borrowed instead of owned.

"Your grandfather fell ill," she said softly. "Your uncle Eli and aunt Naomi came one evening. They said he wanted to make peace before—" she swallowed, "before his time came. He wanted to see his grandson, to make things right." She looked down at her hands. "Rebecca was always too forgiving. She packed up your things that same night. Said family should heal when they have the chance."

Iza, who had been listening silently, reached out and took her aunt's hand. "You never told me this part before."

"Some stories are harder to tell than others, my dear," Aunt Oby replied. "But they need telling all the same." She turned back to Nze. "Your mother wrote to me every week after that. Even when she fell ill herself, she would send these little notes..." Her voice trailed off, and she blinked rapidly. "I've kept them all. Would you like to see them?"

The afternoon sun slanted through the pergola, casting dappled shadows across their faces as the weight of history settled around them like a familiar blanket. In the distance, a wind chime tinkled softly, its sound carrying memories of lullabies and laughter from long ago.

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ ✩₊˚

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