Chapter 6: Her Words, My Fire
The sky was soft and grey that morning, the kind that invited silence instead of sound.
Naledi sat by the window, reading a worn notebook. I watched her in stillness — the way her eyes moved, the way her fingers paused over each word like they mattered more than anything else.
"What are you reading?" I asked gently.
She looked up, surprised. "Something I wrote. A long time ago. Before I met you."
"Can I see?"
A pause. Then she held the notebook close, then closer, and finally handed it over.
"Be gentle," she said. "These pages know too much."
I smiled and took it with both hands like it was fragile.
The handwriting was neat but urgent, like she wrote the words to save herself.
"I keep waiting for someone to stay. Not save me. Just… stay."
"Maybe silence is a language too. One I speak best."
"Love isn't loud. Sometimes, it's a cup of tea left on the table, still warm."
I didn't know I was crying until she touched my cheek.
"You wrote this?" I whispered.
She nodded.
"It's like you wrote it for me."
"I think I was writing for both of us," she said softly.
I sat beside her on the floor, notebook in my lap, our knees barely touching. That closeness — it felt electric but quiet, like warmth through cold skin.
"I want to write too," I said. "One day."
"You will."
Later that day, while Naledi slept, I stepped outside. The storm had left behind broken branches, blackened bark, and trees split open by lightning.
It looked like destruction. But I saw something else.
Charcoal.
Pieces of it littered the forest floor, left behind by nature's rage.
I crouched beside one pile and touched the blackened wood.
It was light. Dry. Powerful.
Memories came flooding back — my grandfather used to sell charcoal in winter. He taught me how to burn the wood slow, how to package it, how to trade it for maize or sugar. I was only ten then. But I remembered.
"What if I could do it again?" I whispered. "What if this time… it saves us?"
I gathered a few chunks and carried them back to the cabin.
When Naledi woke, she found me at the small table, my fingers covered in black dust, sketching a plan on scrap paper.
She blinked, then smiled. "What are you doing?"
"I have an idea," I said, heart racing. "Charcoal. From the storm trees. I think I can make good batches and sell them to traders."
Naledi looked stunned. "Charcoal?"
"It's clean, it's useful, and it doesn't need electricity or machines. Just patience. And a bit of knowledge."
She sat beside me, intrigued.
"I can make it quietly," I continued. "No one has to know where it comes from. I'll travel when I'm ready. Deliver in silence. Bring money back. No noise. No risk."
Naledi stared at me, her eyes filled with something deeper than admiration — it was pride.
"You're amazing," she said. "You're really thinking ahead."
"I want us to survive," I said. "Not just feel safe. I want to build something. Slowly. In our own way."
Naledi took my hand. "Then I'll help you."
That night, we sat beside the fire pit, a small flame dancing between us.
"You know," Naledi said, "you're not the girl I met in the woods anymore."
I looked at her. "Then who am I?"
"You're the woman who came back to life," she whispered. "You're the one teaching me how to start again."