The following week in Edena felt longer than any Amara could remember. The rain had stopped, but the air remained thick, like the town itself was holding its breath.
The whispers had not gone away. If anything, they had grown louder — spreading from the market stalls to the church pews, carried by voices that hid behind politeness.
Everywhere she went, Amara felt the eyes.
The teachers' room fell quiet when she entered. The women at the water stand stopped talking mid-sentence. Even the children, innocent and wide-eyed, looked at her with confused curiosity.
She had been the example once — the good teacher, the patient woman, the quiet strength of Edena.
Now she was a story.
She tried to hide the hurt, but it clung to her.
When she stood before her class, chalk in hand, her voice trembled slightly. "Who can tell me the meaning of 'resilience'?"
A small boy named Ifeanyi raised his hand. "It means… when something breaks but still tries to stand again."
Her throat tightened. "That's right," she whispered.
Outside, a faint breeze stirred the mango leaves in the distance.
---
Tunde spent those days on the outskirts of town, working on the broken fences of his father's land. The physical labor gave him peace — or something close to it.
He could swing a hammer, dig trenches, and for a few hours forget the ache behind his ribs.
But every sound from the road — every passing motorbike, every echo of laughter — made him look up, hoping to see Amara.
He wanted to go to her, to hold her, to tell her that the world's noise didn't matter. But he knew how fragile her situation was. If he appeared again, it would only add fuel to the fire.
So he stayed away.
But distance did not quiet his thoughts.
Each night, he sat on the verandah, staring into the darkness, remembering her words under the Mango Tree. "Even if this ruins everything… I don't care anymore."
He replayed them, again and again, until they felt like both a promise and a curse.
---
By midweek, the school board summoned Amara formally.
The chairman, a stern man with gray hair and thick glasses, spoke first. "Miss Amara Okechukwu, this institution has a reputation to maintain. We are aware of the personal circumstances affecting you, but they have become a distraction."
Amara sat straight in her chair. "With respect, sir, my private life has nothing to do with my teaching."
A murmur went around the table.
Another member, a woman with tightly tied headgear, leaned forward. "When a teacher's name is on everyone's lips, the students listen. The parents worry. It is not only about conduct — it is about perception."
Amara clenched her fists under the table. "Perception doesn't teach these children. I do."
There was silence.
The chairman sighed. "You will be placed on a two-week suspension. Without pay."
Amara felt something break quietly inside her.
She nodded once, rose slowly, and walked out before her voice could betray her.
---
That evening, she wandered aimlessly through Edena. The sun was setting, casting long golden shadows across the narrow roads. The vendors were packing up. Somewhere, someone was playing a flute.
She ended up where she always did — beneath the Mango Tree.
It was quiet there, except for the rustle of the leaves and the chirping of crickets. She sank to the ground, closed her eyes, and let the tears fall freely for the first time in days.
She didn't hear him approach until she felt the gentle touch of his hand on her shoulder.
"Amara."
She turned. Tunde stood behind her, the fading light soft on his face. His expression was full of worry and tenderness.
"You heard," she said flatly.
"Yes," he admitted. "I wanted to come sooner, but…"
"You didn't want to make it worse," she finished for him.
He sat beside her quietly. "I'm sorry."
She gave a bitter laugh. "Don't be. You didn't tell them to suspend me. You didn't teach me to care about what people think."
He watched her for a long moment, then said softly, "Do you ever think maybe this town doesn't deserve you?"
Her eyes filled again. "Maybe I don't deserve this town. Maybe this is what happens when you love the wrong person too loudly."
Tunde's voice hardened slightly. "You didn't love the wrong person. You loved a coward. The boy I used to be."
She shook her head. "You left to find a life, Tunde. Don't twist it into guilt."
He exhaled deeply, rubbing the back of his neck. "When I left for military school, I told myself it was for the best. That if I came back, everything would be better. But I came back and realized—"
He stopped.
"Realized what?"
"That I never stopped loving you," he said quietly. "And I hate that my love is the thing breaking your peace."
For a long time, neither of them spoke. The air between them was heavy but honest.
Amara finally whispered, "Do you think it's possible to start over? To leave Edena and everything behind?"
Tunde looked at her, startled. "You'd really leave?"
"I don't know," she said. "But staying feels like drowning slowly."
He took her hand gently. "If you're serious, I'll go with you. Anywhere."
She met his eyes — the same brown eyes that had once looked at her across a dusty classroom years ago. There was sincerity there, but also uncertainty.
"Let's not make promises in the dark," she said softly. "Let's just breathe for now."
---
Later that night, Amara returned home to find an envelope slipped under her door.
No name. No seal. Just a folded piece of paper.
She opened it and froze.
Inside was a photo — her and Tunde beneath the Mango Tree, rain falling, their faces close.
And beneath it, a line written in neat, cruel handwriting:
"If the school board won't stop you, the whole town will."
Her hands trembled.
Someone had followed them. Watched them.
She dropped into a chair, her pulse racing. The shadows in the corners of her small sitting room suddenly felt alive.
Outside, the wind began to howl through the trees again, carrying with it the faint scent of mango leaves and coming storm.
She whispered his name — "Tunde…" — and for the first time since he'd returned, fear crept into her voice.
Love had made her brave. But now, it might have made her a target.
---