A presence.
Chioma felt it first in the quiet hour before dawn, when the prison was at its stillest—when even the guards spoke in whispers and the distant clang of metal doors softened into something almost human.
A sharp, deliberate kick.
She inhaled slowly, her hand pressing against the curve of her stomach.
“You’re strong,” she murmured. “Stronger than all of this.”
The window beside her bed was small, but it opened just enough to let the early Lagos air drift in—warm, heavy, alive. For the first time in months, she no longer felt buried beneath concrete and iron.
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