The steady hum of the hospital monitor filled the pristine room, an unrelenting backdrop to the quiet interaction unfolding inside. Dr. Dapo sat on the edge of the patient's bed, his stethoscope hanging loosely around his neck. His spotless white coat reflected the discipline and care that had earned him a sterling reputation. In the eyes of the world, he was a man of precision, a healer who could mend broken bodies and breathe life into fragile souls.
But not all wounds could be healed.
He sighed deeply, patting the frail hand of Mama Adebayo before standing. "You're doing well," he said, his words accompanied by a smile he'd practiced to perfection. It was warm enough to reassure but distant enough to keep emotions at bay. The old woman nodded her gratitude, her eyes brimming with unspoken trust. For a fleeting moment, something stirred within him—a flicker of connection, perhaps even hope—but it faded as quickly as it came.
The door clicked softly behind him as he exited the room. He glanced at his watch. It was late, but that was precisely why he stayed. The long hours at the hospital weren't just a reflection of his dedication—they were a refuge. The sterile halls and controlled chaos of the emergency ward provided a sanctuary from the shadows that waited for him at home.
The house.
The thought of it made his chest tighten.
On the surface, it was a symbol of success: a sprawling estate that spoke of the life he and Adaora had built together. But to him, it was something far darker—a vault of memories he had spent years trying to suppress. Those memories lurked in every corner, waiting for quiet moments to ambush him with the past.
Dapo stepped into his office, shutting the door behind him as if to keep the weight of his thoughts at bay. The leather chair creaked softly as he sank into it, his gaze falling on the photograph that sat on his desk.
It was an old family portrait, taken back when life had felt simpler—or perhaps he had only convinced himself it was. The children had been young, their smiles unburdened by the truths they couldn't yet see. Adaora's eyes sparkled with the kind of hope he no longer recognized in her. And then there was his own face—young, vibrant, full of purpose. The man in the photo was a stranger now, his features softened by time but hardened by guilt.
He ran a hand over his face, trying to push the memories back. But they came anyway, unbidden and relentless.
The shouting.
The accusations.
The irrevocable mistake.
It had happened years ago, but its shadow followed him everywhere. He'd tried to bury it, to lock it away behind closed doors and beneath layers of routine. But the past had a way of resurfacing, clawing its way to the present like a relentless specter.
Adaora had been the pragmatic one. "We can't change what happened," she'd said in that resolute tone she used when she wanted to shut down a discussion. "We have to protect what we've built."
Protect. The word lingered in his mind, its meaning warped over the years. Protecting their family had come to mean secrets. Lies. Compromises. Each one a brick in the wall that separated him from the life he'd once envisioned.
A soft knock at the door startled him out of his thoughts. One of the nurses poked her head in to remind him of an upcoming appointment. He nodded, straightening his tie and slipping back into the mask of the consummate professional.
The drive home that evening was a blur of city lights and muted radio chatter. His hands gripped the steering wheel tighter than necessary, and the familiar ache in his shoulders refused to ease. As the gates of the estate loomed into view, a heaviness settled over him.
He parked in the circular driveway and remained in the car for a few moments, staring at the grand façade of the house. Its lit windows glowed warmly, a deceitful invitation to a place that held no comfort. He imagined Adaora in their bedroom, meticulously planning the next day's schedule. Tayo, the new housemaid, would be somewhere downstairs, quietly going about her tasks. And somewhere in the depths of the house, the past would be waiting, as it always was.
When he finally stepped inside, the air seemed heavier, laden with a tension he could never quite explain. Adaora greeted him briefly, her words perfunctory, her eyes sharp as ever. Their conversations had become like this—efficient exchanges of information, devoid of the warmth they once shared. He offered a short response before retreating to his study, seeking solace in its solitude.
The desk drawer called to him, as it often did. Locked, as always. He reached into his pocket and retrieved the small brass key, its edges worn from years of use. The lock clicked softly, and he pulled the drawer open, revealing the folder within.
Inside were fragments of a story no one else could ever know. A photograph, yellowed with age. A handwritten letter, its ink smudged in places as if touched by trembling hands. And a single document, its contents too damning to share with anyone—not even Adaora.
His eyes lingered on the photograph, his expression unreadable. It was a picture of a different time, a different life. A time when the secrets hadn't yet taken root.
With a resigned sigh, he returned the items to the drawer and locked it again, as if that simple act could keep the memories from creeping into his mind. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples, willing the thoughts to fade.
But they never did.
The house was quiet, but it was never truly silent. It hummed with the echoes of the past, whispering truths he didn't want to hear. He could feel it in the creak of the floorboards, in the way the shadows seemed to stretch longer in certain rooms.
He thought of Adaora's words again. "Protect what we've built."
They had done exactly that—protected their image, their family, their secrets. But at what cost? The weight of it all was crushing, and he wasn't sure how much longer he could carry it.
As he sat there in the dim light of his study, the question gnawed at him: how long before the past caught up with them? How long before the cracks in their carefully constructed façade became too wide to ignore?
A faint noise from the hallway broke his reverie. It was soft, almost imperceptible, but it was enough to make him sit up straight. He strained his ears, his pulse quickening.
Footsteps.
He wasn't alone.
Dapo rose from his chair, his heart pounding. The shadows in the hallway seemed darker than usual, and the air felt heavier. He stepped into the corridor, his eyes scanning the darkness.
But there was no one there.
And yet, the feeling remained—that oppressive sense that something was lurking just beyond his reach.
He returned to his study, locking the door behind him. But sleep wouldn't come that night. It rarely did.
The house had secrets, and no matter how deeply they buried them, they always found a way to rise.