Nia's house had that modern look that always made me pause for a moment. Most of the homes in Greenwood Village had the traditional sloped rooftops, with weathered wooden beams and chimneys that puffed out smoke like silent guards. But Nia's house stood out, with its square rooftop and clean, sharp lines. It didn't belong here—at least, not in the way the rest of the village did.
Her front door was slightly ajar, so I stepped inside without knocking. The scent of freshly baked bread and earth lingered in the air. There she was, sitting cross-legged on the front porch, her back hunched over something in her lap.
"Nia! Hello!" I called out, making her look up from—was that a book?
"Is that a book?" I asked, my voice filled with shock and a hint of excitement.
She immediately pressed a finger to her lips, her brows furrowed in mock annoyance. "Shhh! Come here," she whispered, gesturing for me to sit beside her.
I plopped down next to her as she smirked, holding up the book like it was a treasure chest. "I stole it from Jace. Well, not really stole—he's gone to the city for work and won't be back for three days, so I borrowed it."
"What kind of book is it? Can you read it?" I asked eagerly, leaning closer.
In Greenwood Village, women didn't go to school. The village head had long declared that women didn't need to read or write, as their duties were confined to cooking, cleaning, and raising children—tasks that supposedly didn't require education. My mother, grandmother, and every other woman I knew had never been taught to read. But Nia and I had always been different. We had a shared hunger for knowledge, a quiet rebellion against the ignorance forced upon us. Whenever we got our hands on a book—rare as it was—we would steal moments like this to try and make sense of its words.
Nia pouted, flipping the book open to reveal rows of dense text. "I don't know," she admitted. "It doesn't have pictures like the last one."
She was right. The previous book we'd found had been full of colorful illustrations of gardens, trees, and crops. Even though we couldn't understand most of the words, we'd spent hours poring over the images.
I sighed, the weight of reality pulling me back. "Nia, come with me to the well. I have to fetch water."
She groaned, not looking up. "Just let me read this one page first."
"The sun is already setting," I pleaded. "The well is so far, and it'll take us a while to get there and back. We need to go now, or it'll be dark before we return."
She huffed dramatically, snapping the book shut. "Fine," she grumbled, standing up and brushing the dust off her skirt. "But you owe me!"
A small smile tugged at my lips. This was Nia, always torn between reluctance and loyalty. I knew she would never let me go alone, no matter how much she complained.
The path to the well was a simple dirt road leading straight into the forest, just behind the village. It wasn't deep into the woods, but it was still far enough to give everyone a reason to tread cautiously. Greenwood Village had only two main roads—one leading to the city at the front and another heading to the well at the back. Both were dusty, uneven, and poorly maintained, like everything else in the village.
The village hadn't seen any development or help from the government in years. The lack of communication between the outside world and Greenwood made it easy to ignore us. The authorities barely talked to each other, let alone thought about improving our lives.
As Nia and I were about to step past the last house on the road leading to the well, someone called out behind us.
"Nia!"
We turned to see Kalindi hurrying toward us, balancing two large bundles—one on her head and another under her arm. The bundles were filled with fresh cow fodder, likely for the small herd she cared for.
Kalindi was a familiar figure in the village. At 30, she was one of the few widows who had managed to hold her head high despite the loss of her husband. With her dark complexion and slender frame, she had an air of quiet strength about her. She also had a 15-year-old son, who she worked tirelessly to provide for.
"Where are you two going?" she asked, adjusting the bundle on her head.
"To fetch water," I replied. "There's none left at home."
"Wait, wait, I'll come with you," she said, shifting the load to her other arm.
That was the thing about Kalindi. Despite being older, she treated us like friends and often looked out for us. She was both a mother figure and a confidante, someone we trusted with our secrets and sought comfort in when the world felt too heavy.
"Alright," I said, smiling. "But let's hurry. The sun won't wait for us."
Kalindi nodded and fell into step with us, her presence making me feel safer. With the three of us together, the journey to the well didn't seem as daunting.