It was December in Akure, and Harmattan had arrived with its crisp winds and dry, biting air. The streets were alive with Christmas lights and the sounds of children rehearsing carols in nearby churches. For Ada, however, the season was a cold reminder of what had been taken from her a year ago.

At just 17, Ada had been a bright, ambitious girl, full of dreams of studying law and becoming the voice for the voiceless. That was before that night—before her world shattered in a single act of cruelty. The man responsible, a family friend named Uncle Femi, walked free, shielded by silence and shame. Her parents begged her to let it go, to move on, but Ada couldn't. Justice wasn't just a wish; it was her survival.

In her room, lit only by the faint glow of a plastic Christmas tree, Ada knelt beside her bed. She clutched the small wooden cross her grandmother had given her years ago.

"Dear God," she whispered, her voice trembling, "if You're truly there, I don't want gifts or carols this Christmas. I just want justice. Please, let him face what he's done. Let the truth come out."

The days leading to Christmas were a blur of preparations. Ada went through the motions, helping her mother prepare jollof rice and fried chicken, decorating the small living room, and wrapping gifts for her younger siblings. But her heart wasn't in it. Every moment, she replayed that night in her head. The locked door. His hands. Her screams swallowed by the thick, suffocating silence.

On Christmas Eve, Ada was sitting outside, the night air chilling her skin, when her phone buzzed. A message from Chike, her childhood friend and aspiring journalist, lit up the screen:

"Ada, I have something. Can we meet?"

They met at a small, deserted park a few streets away. Chike was holding a folder, his face grim. "I've been digging, Ada. I couldn't stand by while you suffered. I found other girls—three of them. They all have the same story about Femi."

Ada's breath caught in her throat. "You… you found them?"

Chike nodded. "And they're willing to come forward. I also have proof—bank transactions, text messages he sent them. It's enough to open a case."

Tears welled up in Ada's eyes. For the first time in a year, she felt a flicker of hope. "Thank you," she whispered.

Christmas morning dawned bright and clear, but Ada's mind was elsewhere. Clutching Chike's folder, she walked into her parents' room. They were sitting by the small Christmas tree, exchanging gifts.

"I need to talk to you," she said, her voice steady. She placed the folder on the table. "This is the truth. I'm going to the police. You can either stand with me or keep pretending nothing happened. But I won't stay silent anymore."

Her father looked at the documents, his face darkening. "Ada, you know what this could mean for our family—"

"For me, it means healing," Ada interrupted. "For him, it means accountability. And for the other girls, it means hope."

Her mother's eyes brimmed with tears, but she nodded. "We'll stand by you," she said softly.

That afternoon, Ada and her parents went to the police station, armed with Chike's evidence and the testimonies of the other survivors. The officers listened, took notes, and assured her they would act. For the first time, Ada felt a weight lift off her chest.

As they left the station, the sound of distant carolers filled the air. Ada looked up at the sky, the first stars of the evening beginning to twinkle.

"Thank you," she whispered to no one in particular.

Justice wasn't guaranteed. The road ahead would be long and grueling. But for the first time in a year, Ada felt like she had reclaimed a piece of herself. And that was the best Christmas gift she could have asked for.