The next morning came quietly. No footsteps banging on the floor. No shouting voices yanking her out of sleep. Just the soft light of dawn filtering through the thin curtain above the single window in her small room.
Zaria opened her eyes slowly, unsure for a moment whether it was real—whether she had indeed eaten, studied, and slept in peace the night before. But the feeling in her chest confirmed it. A small seed of calm, rare and precious, still nestled somewhere deep inside her.
She stretched her arms and sat up. Her bones ached slightly from sleeping on the hard, thin mattress, but she didn't complain. Her body was used to discomfort. What mattered more was the memory of last night—of being full, warm, and undisturbed. Moments like those were rare, and she collected them carefully, like treasure.
The house remained still. Sarah, Mary, and Claire hadn't returned during the night. That meant they had likely slept over at Miss Kendra's place or gotten too caught up in the party to come back. Zaria couldn't care less. Their absence was a gift she wouldn't waste.
She moved quickly, making her bed, folding the small blanket at the foot, and tiptoeing to the kitchen to make tea for herself. Just water, sugar, and a sprinkle of ginger powder she'd found in the back of the cabinet weeks ago. She poured it into a chipped mug and held it with both hands, sipping slowly as she watched the morning brighten through the kitchen window.
There was no rush today. No list of chores barked out before she could even stretch. No Sarah accusing her of being lazy. No Mary rolling her eyes. No Claire demanding toast that she'd never eat.
Zaria leaned against the kitchen counter, letting herself imagine—just for a moment—that this was her home. That this silence was normal. That she was simply a girl living her life, with no one watching her suffer from the shadows.
After finishing her tea, she washed the mug and returned to her room. From beneath the mattress, she pulled out her books again, this time flipping to the pages she hadn't touched yet. She was determined to finish revising every subject before school resumed.
The world outside the window was waking up—children chasing each other in the yard next door, the neighbor's radio humming with soft gospel music, the distant honk of a bodaboda on the road. But none of that distracted her.
She sat on the floor, back straight, pencil in hand, eyes sharp. She wrote answers, corrected notes, even quizzed herself out loud. There was pride in her voice when she got something right, and determination when she didn't.
By midday, she had finished three pages of math problems and rewritten two full comprehension passages in English. She knew her classmates probably weren't touching their books over the holidays. But Zaria wasn't like them. She didn't have anyone cheering her on, no one pushing her to study, to succeed. She had only herself.
And maybe that was enough—for now.
Her stomach growled again, but she ignored it. There wasn't much food left anyway. She needed to make what remained stretch until Sarah returned—because once they were back, the rules would tighten again.
Still, hunger didn't upset her the way it used to. She had experienced worse.
Instead, she took her final notebook—the one that wasn't for school—and opened to the middle. A blank page stared back at her. She smiled faintly, pulled her legs beneath her, and began to write.
> If silence were a person, it would be my best friend today.
If peace were a place, I would live there forever.
For now, I live in this house. But in my heart, I'm already moving forward.
I'll keep writing. I'll keep reading. I'll keep learning.
Even when no one sees me, I'll keep going.
She stared at the page, reading the words again. They didn't erase her loneliness. They didn't fill the space where a mother's love should've been. But they reminded her that she had a voice—even if no one else listened.
She heard the gate creak suddenly, and her body tensed. Quick as a flash, she shoved the books back into the bag and tucked it beneath her mattress. Her heart raced.
Then came the sound of heels. Laughter. Mary's voice.
They were back.
Zaria stood quickly, straightening her clothes and brushing invisible dust from her skirt. The weight of the house returned, heavy and cold.
Sarah entered first, grumbling about her headache. "Zaria!" she barked, tossing her bag onto the couch. "Bring me a glass of water! Now!"
Zaria moved quickly to the kitchen. The silence was gone. Replaced by chaos, complaints, and the bitter smell of Sarah's leftover perfume.
But even as she handed Sarah the water and returned to her corner, she carried something different inside her.
A quiet memory.
Of a morning that belonged only to her.