Zara sat in the corner of the living room, her knees tucked under her chin. She stared at the large, unfamiliar TV screen, the bright colors of an American talk show reflecting on her face. The cheerful banter of the hosts felt out of sync with the tension she sensed around her.
Her mother was in the adjacent dining room, speaking in hushed tones with a man Zara had never seen before. He was tall, with a worn leather jacket and a briefcase that looked like it had seen too many airports. They leaned over the table, their words too low to catch, but the occasional glance her mother threw toward the living room made Zara feel uneasy.
The air smelled of fresh coffee and a candle her mother had lit—something floral and sharp. Back home in Nigeria, Zara would have been surrounded by the earthy aroma of jollof rice or the spices from her father's weekend cooking. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, letting the memories roll in: the laughter of her cousins, the buzzing of insects through the open windows, and the soothing rumble of her father's voice.
But when she opened her eyes, she was here. In America. Where everything felt cold and alien.
Zara's first week in the U.S. had been a whirlwind of emotions. The sheer scale of everything overwhelmed her—endless highways, towering malls, and buildings that seemed to kiss the sky. Back in Nigeria, her world had felt vibrant and intimate. Here, everything was loud, fast, and impersonal. Even the weather seemed to mock her—biting cold instead of the familiar humid heat she had known all her life.
The people, too, were different. She'd never seen so many white faces before, not in real life. Their accents were clipped and foreign, their smiles polite but distant. They called her name with a sing-song lilt that made her bristle. Back home, her name had weight. Here, it felt like an oddity.
Her mother's voice rose slightly, pulling Zara back to the present.
"She's only a teenager, Greg," her mother said, her tone sharp but laced with worry. "I just need more time."
The man replied, his voice calm but firm, "Time's running out. You know what they're capable of. She's not safe here—not if they find out."
Zara's stomach churned. *Not safe? Who's not safe? And who are 'they'?*
Her mother glanced over, catching Zara's wide-eyed stare. "Go to your room, Zara," she said, her voice tight.
"I'm fine here," Zara replied, crossing her arms.
"Zara," her mother repeated, more forcefully this time.
With a huff, Zara got up and stomped to her room, her curiosity burning brighter than ever. She didn't know this version of her mother—this guarded, secretive woman. Back home, her mom had been vibrant and carefree, always dancing to old Nigerian tunes and telling stories about her university days.
Now, her mother seemed like a stranger.
Zara flopped onto her bed and stared at the ceiling. Questions swirled in her mind like a storm. What had happened to her father's work? Why was her mom suddenly so cautious? And who was this Sam guy?
Reaching into her backpack, Zara pulled out her father's journal—the one thing she had taken from his study back home. It was thick with notes and sketches, most of which she didn't understand. But one entry stood out, marked with a bold red circle:
"*The artifacts must be protected at all costs. Too many lives are at stake. Trust no one.*"
Zara traced the words with her finger, a chill running down her spine. *Lives at stake? Trust no one?*
A knock on her door interrupted her thoughts.
"Dinner's ready," her mother said from the hallway.
Zara quickly shoved the journal under her pillow. "Coming," she replied, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her.
At the table, the tension was palpable. The man—Sam—was gone, leaving only his coffee cup as evidence of his visit. Zara picked at her food, her appetite dulled by the questions swirling in her mind.
Her mother broke the silence. "How was your day?"
Zara shrugged. "Fine."
"That's all you're going to say?"
"Why don't you tell me about yours?" Zara shot back, her voice sharper than she intended.
Her mom sighed, her shoulders slumping. "Not now, Zara."
The words stung, but Zara held her tongue. She had a feeling that "not now" was her mother's way of saying "never."
Later that night, Zara couldn't sleep. The journal called to her, its pages filled with secrets she was determined to uncover. If her mother wouldn't give her answers, she would find them herself.
As she opened the journal again, her father's words echoed in her mind: *Trust no one.*