Morning didn't rush in.
It crept gently.
The pale golden light slid through the half-drawn curtain like it was uncertain whether it was welcome. Emma stirred slowly, her eyes opening to the low ceiling she had stared at a thousand times — but today, it looked different. Or maybe… she felt different.
Her head rested on a folded kitenge that had fallen from the bed; Ruth must have placed it there. Ruth. She glanced sideways. The chair was empty. The door slightly ajar. The quiet told her Ruth had already left, probably sneaking out before dawn to open her stall in the market.
Emma sat up.
Her body ached — not from bruises, but from emotion. The kind that left you sore in your bones. But her heart… it wasn't as heavy. Not as chained. Something had broken last night. And in the breaking, maybe something had also been freed.
She stood up and moved over to Lia, who was still asleep. Her tiny chest rose and fell gently, one arm thrown across her forehead like she was shielding her dreams. Emma brushed a stray curl from her daughter's cheek.
"Thank you," she whispered. She wasn't sure if she was thanking God, Ruth, or her daughter — maybe all three.
After freshening up with the little water left in her jerrycan, Emma wrapped her scarf tightly and stepped out. The early morning air was crisp, the sky painted in soft hues of blue and gold. Children darted past with schoolbags, women swept dust from storefronts, and a few boda bodas zipped by, kicking up small clouds of dust.
She walked fast — not to escape anything, but to get to work before the landlord changed his mind.
Her workplace wasn't glamorous.
A small shop in town that sold second-hand clothes — mitumba. Her boss, Mama Stella, was a sharp-tongued woman in her 40s who always wore too much lipstick and didn't care if your heart was breaking — only if you sold enough.
Emma had started working there two years ago. At first, it was humiliating. Then, it became normal. Now, it was survival.
When she arrived, the shop was already open. Mama Stella was seated at the counter, counting coins.
"You're late," she said without looking up.
Emma checked her watch. She wasn't.
"I'm on time."
Mama Stella looked at her. "You've got tired eyes."
Emma forced a smile. "Long night."
Mama Stella scoffed. "This life is long. Learn to stand in it, not just pass through it."
Emma wanted to argue, but instead she nodded and walked to the rack of dresses, beginning the day's work.
The hours dragged.
Customers came and went — some friendly, others entitled. Emma smiled through it all. But deep down, she was thinking.
About Lia.
About Ruth.
About the invisible strength it took to keep going.
About how even broken people still woke up and faced the world.
At lunchtime, she sat on a wooden crate behind the shop, eating plain ugali with sukuma wiki from a nylon paper. She didn't even taste it. She was thinking again.
This time… about what it would take to change her life.
Would she ever fall in love again?
Could she trust?
Would she allow anyone to see that vulnerable part of her — the girl who once believed in love like it was the sky?
She sighed.
"Stop thinking so much," Mama Stella called from inside. "Thoughts won't cook supper."
Emma smiled slightly. Mama Stella wasn't wrong.
But thoughts could open doors.
To be continued...