The walk back to the dormitory was a battle against his own spirit. His feet carried him forward while his mind circled like a trapped bird, always returning to that single moment—that sound of joy. Maria's laughter, once a sacred thing he thought belonged in the space between them, now scattered to the wind like offerings meant for another altar. The memory branded itself into his thoughts, hot as ritual iron.

He had never witnessed such light in her eyes, such unguarded delight that transformed her whole being. Not even in the moments they shared. And the man beside her—tall as a king's palm, moving with the confidence of one who had never questioned his place in the world. The way he bent toward her spoke of possession, of claiming, of rights written in a language Onwuka's tongue had never learned to speak.

The salt air turned traitor in his lungs, no longer carrying the blessing of home but bearing poison, bearing thorns. The sea that had once cradled his dreams now mocked them. Above, the gulls cried out her betrayal to the heavens. The ancient stones of Paraty whispered of his foolishness with every footfall, their voices old as the spirits who had witnessed countless such heartaches.

When he reached the dormitory, the storm in his blood had grown wild as the winds that once drove his ancestors' ships. Night had devoured day, leaving the world carved into shadows sharp as broken promises. The building that usually sheltered his weary bones now pressed against him like a shroud.

Inside, men gathered like moths around the communal fire, their voices a low drone beneath rising smoke. From the far corner came the sound of dice and destiny, where Tomás and his followers cast their lots, their shadows dancing on the walls like restless spirits.

Onwuka clenched his fists.

Tomás.

The man had always carried a smirk, a sneer, a tongue as sharp as the knives he used at the docks. He had made sport of Onwuka's accent before, turning sacred words into mockery while others fed on the shame like vultures.

Tonight, Onwuka's patience had been burned away in the fires of wounded pride.

"Olha quem chegou," Tomás drawled, glancing up from the game. "O menino perdido. The lost boy."

Laughter rippled through the gathering like disturbed water, some hesitant, others bold. Onwuka didn't stop walking.

"Did you tire yourself chasing after that white woman's skirts? Or did she toss you scraps like a faithful dog?"

The ancestral rage that lived in Onwuka's blood broke free of its chains.

Before he knew it, he had closed the distance, shoving Tomás back so hard that the man stumbled against the table, dice clattering to the floor.

Gasps and shouts erupted, bodies shifting, men rising to their feet. But Tomás was already recovering, his face darkening with rage.

"You want to fight, menino?" His voice was quiet now, dangerous. His hand moved to his belt, and firelight kissed the blade he drew—small as a secret but hungry for flesh. The air grew thick with the taste of coming violence.

The men who had fed on mockery moments before now stood rigid as burial stones, waiting to see whose blood would paint the floor.

Onwuka's heart beat war drums against his ribs. His breath came sharp as broken glass.

Then, a voice cut through the tension.

"Enough."

The Matrona.

The room silenced instantly. Even Tomás, blade still thirsting in his grip, turned to stone as she stepped into their circle. She who kept their names written in her book, who knew the weight of their sins, who held their secrets like precious beads on a string.

"You will not bring violence into my house," she said, each word solid as the earth itself. "Or you will seek shelter elsewhere."

Tomás wavered, then tucked his blade away with a curse bitter as unripe fruit. He spat at Onwuka's feet—a final defiance—before melting into the shadows.

"Onwuka." The Matrona's voice carried no choice, no escape. "Stay."

He followed her to the small back room, surrounded by ledgers that held the stories of their lives. She turned, studying him with sharp eyes. "I thought you had more sense."

Onwuka's jaw tightened like a fist. His anger was his own to keep.

"You have fire in you," she continued. "That is good. But if you let it consume you, you will be nothing but ash."

The silence between them grew heavy with unspoken truths.

At last, she released a breath like letting go of old pain. "Get your act together, boy."

He left her presence carrying the weight of her words, but offering none of his own.

The lesson room stood empty, its lone oil lamp casting spirits of light against the walls. He welcomed the silence, the chance to let his soul settle in his body again.

But the ancestors had other plans that night.

Luísa entered like a storm breaking, her presence filling the space with something electric, something that made the air itself hold its breath.

"You got into a fight," she said, the words falling between them like stones in still water.

Onwuka let silence be his answer.

"Over Maria?" She moved to lean against the wall, arms crossed like barriers.

His shoulders betrayed him, tightening like rope under strain.

"They weren't doing anything wrong, you know," she said, watching him with eyes that saw too much. "Just talking."

"I don't care what they were doing."

"No?" Her voice carried a smile he refused to look at. "Is that why you tried to break Tomás into pieces?"

He turned away, but her words followed.

"Did you think she was yours?" Luísa asked. "That her laughter belonged to you alone?"

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" She pushed off from the wall. "Tell me then, what am I missing? What great love story have I failed to see?"

Heat crawled up his neck. "There is no story."

"No?" She took another step closer. "Then why does it burn you to see her with him?"

"It doesn't."

"Did you see them kissing?" The question dropped like a stone into still water.

His frown was genuine. "Kissing?"

A smile curved her lips, dangerous as a new moon. "You don't know what a kiss is?"

"I know." The words came out harder than he meant them to.

"Do you?" Another step closer, her voice silk over steel. "Or do you just think you do? There's knowing, and then there's knowing."

He turned to the window, seeking refuge in the sliver of moon hanging like a question in the sky.

"Have you ever kissed anyone, Onwuka?" His name on her lips was different somehow, carrying weight he hadn't noticed before.

"Why does it matter?"

"Everything matters." Her voice dropped lower, a whisper that seemed to touch his skin. "Do you want to know?"

He turned back then, caught in the gravity of the moment, and found her closer than before. The question hung between them like incense in sacred air.

She moved before thought could catch up to instinct, before the world could remind them of all the reasons why not. Her lips brushed his, gentle as morning mist, barely there at all. But that ghost of a touch sparked something ancient in his blood, sent tremors through his spirit that he had no name for.

And then the moment shattered like a dream at dawn.

She stepped back, her face a mystery in the lamp's glow, holding secrets he suddenly yearned to understand.

"There," she said, the word soft as a confession. "Now you know."

She left him standing in that room of shadows and half-light, the memory of her kiss lingering like a blessing on his lips, tasting of salt and possibilities and things yet unnamed.

१
Please vote and drop a commentッ