Zara sat cross-legged on her bed, staring at the bare walls of her new room. The faint smell of lavender from a scented candle her mother had placed on the nightstand did little to comfort her. Everything here was so... polished. Sterile, even. Back in Lagos, her room had been bursting with life—posters peeling slightly at the corners, stacks of books on every available surface, and the sound of the bustling city outside her window.
Here, all she had was silence, broken only by the occasional hum of a car driving past.
Her suitcase, still half-packed, sat on the floor. She sighed, pulling out one of her father's shirts. Holding it to her face, she inhaled deeply, the faint smell of his cologne tugging at her heart.
The United States was nothing like she had imagined. Growing up in Nigeria, she had pictured the U.S. as a place of endless skyscrapers and movie-set glamour. But here in her mother's suburban neighborhood, everything felt too neat, too quiet. The streets were lined with identical houses, their lawns perfectly trimmed. It felt unreal, like a postcard she couldn't quite step into.
Even the people were different. The few neighbors she had seen earlier that day were all white. Zara had never been surrounded by so many white faces before. Their casual smiles felt foreign, like they knew something she didn't.
She thought back to the bustling markets in Lagos, where everyone seemed to know everyone else. Strangers exchanged banter while vendors called out prices in loud, musical voices. Here, the streets felt empty, like everyone was hiding inside their perfect houses.
---
A knock on her door jolted her from her thoughts.
"Dinner's ready," Clara said, peeking in. Her voice was warm, but Zara could sense the unease behind it.
Zara nodded, following her downstairs. The dining table was set with plates of spaghetti and a small salad. Zara stared at the food, her stomach twisting.
"What's wrong?" Clara asked.
"Nothing," Zara lied, picking up her fork. It wasn't that the food was bad—it was just so different. She longed for jollof rice, for the smoky aroma of suya fresh from the grill.
Clara tried to fill the silence with small talk, asking about Zara's flight, her plans for the week. But Zara barely answered, her mind drifting back to the man who had visited earlier.
---
Later that evening, Zara heard her mother on the phone. Clara's voice was low, urgent, and although Zara couldn't make out the exact words, her tone set Zara's nerves on edge.
She crept downstairs, careful to avoid the creaky step near the bottom. Peeking around the corner, she saw Clara standing in the kitchen, her back to the door.
"She doesn't know," Clara whispered. "I'll handle it. Just... don't call again tonight."
Zara's heart raced. What didn't she know? Was it about the artifact her father had left her? Or something else?
As Clara hung up and turned around, Zara darted back upstairs, her pulse thudding in her ears.
---
Lying in bed, Zara stared at the ceiling, her mind racing. She thought about her father and the life she had left behind. He had always been larger than life—a man who filled every room with his booming laugh and endless stories.
Here, she felt like a shadow of herself. No one knew her. No one understood her. Even Clara, her own mother, felt like a stranger.
Her thoughts drifted to the artifact tucked safely in her bag. It was the last piece of her father she had, and now it seemed like it might be more important than she realized. Why had Clara been so secretive about it?
---
The next day, Zara sat on the porch, her knees pulled to her chest. The suburban street was quiet, save for the distant sound of a lawnmower. She spotted a boy about her age across the street. He waved, jogging over.
"Hey," he said, stopping at the edge of the porch. "You must be new."
Zara nodded, unsure what to say.
"I'm Ethan," he said, offering a hand.
"Zara," she replied, shaking it.
"You like it here?" he asked, sitting on the porch steps.
Zara hesitated. "It's... different."
Ethan laughed. "Yeah, it's pretty boring. But you'll get used to it."
She wanted to tell him that "boring" wasn't the problem. It was the emptiness, the feeling of being so far away from everything she knew.
As they chatted, Zara found herself relaxing for the first time since she'd arrived. Maybe things wouldn't be so bad after all. But as Ethan left, she noticed her mother watching from the window, her face tight with worry.
---
That night, Zara finally opened her suitcase fully. She pulled out the artifact, holding it up to the light. It was small, carved from dark wood, with intricate patterns she didn't fully understand.
She traced the lines with her fingers, her mind filled with questions. Why had her father left this for her? Why had her mother been so secretive about it?
And, most importantly, why did it feel like this was only the beginning of something much bigger?