Snow Dust

Ashes and Embers

The sun hammered the lecture hall, but Michael felt colder than a witch's kiss. Joan's confession, whispered like a serpent's hiss, had turned his blood to ice. Focus? Non-existent. Sentences on the projector screen blurred into accusatory stares, Professor Odinga's voice a distant drone. His mind, once a precise machine, was now a junkyard of shattered trust and gnawing doubts.

Joan. Her name tasted like ash in his mouth. The girl with eyes like melted chocolate and laughter that could chase away demons, the girl who swore eternal fidelity, had traded it all for a fleeting fling. Her pleas, choked sobs that used to melt his heart, now grated like fingernails on a chalkboard. "Michael, please, just talk to me." Her pleas were met with a glacial stare, his silence a canyon she couldn't cross.

The university, once their playground of stolen kisses and whispered promises, became a ghost town of memories. Their smiles, once mirrored in each other's eyes, were now daggers, twisting in their souls. They couldn't breathe the same air, let alone share a conversation. The library, their haven for late-night study sessions, now echoed with the phantom of Joan's betrayal.

One day, Michael, adrift in a sea of despair, stumbled upon Grace Mwagane. She was a sunbeam in a storm, her laughter a melody that soothed his jagged heart. He found solace in her warm, caramel gaze, her voice a gentle balm to his wounds. With Grace, he rediscovered the joy of learning, the thrill of intellectual debate. She was a lighthouse in his storm, guiding him back to the shores of sanity.

Joan, once a constant in his equations, became a variable he neatly crossed out. His studies, once neglected, became a fiery passion. He devoured textbooks, aced tests, and his name became synonymous with academic brilliance. Grace, his rock, his muse, stood by his side, cheering him on.

He was in his final year now, the finish line in sight. A new dream, born from the ashes of betrayal, ignited in his heart. He'd visit Kenya, introduce Grace to his family, the land that nurtured his soul. In return, he'd take her to Rwanda, to the hills where her laughter echoed, the source of her sunshine smile.

One evening, bathed in the golden glow of Nairobi's sunset, Michael held Grace close. "Kenya," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion, "it's time you met my family, my roots."

Grace, her eyes shimmering with tears, replied, "And Rwanda, Michael, I can't wait to show you where the butterflies dance in my soul."

Their kiss, under the watchful gaze of the Baobab trees, was a promise whispered on the wind. A promise of a future built on trust, love, and the unyielding embers of a love that had survived the ashes of betrayal.

But even in the warm embrace of his new love, a sliver of doubt lingered in Michael's heart. Would the ghosts of Joan's infidelity ever truly be exorcised? Would the scars, etched deep by her betrayal, ever truly fade? Only time, and the unwavering love of Grace, would tell.