Invisible Ink

Chapter 1: The Sudden Phone Call

I've spent my entire life building things that were supposed to last. My career. My reputation. The carefully constructed distance between myself and anything that could hurt me. But at 11:45 PM, standing in a room so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat, I finally understood: I'd built everything on a lie.

The house was quiet, save for the rhythmic hum of the AC battling the Sokoto heat. I was sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at a patch of moonlight on the floor tiles, waiting for a sleep that I knew wouldn't come. It had been like this for years. My mother, Hajiya, always told me I worked too hard, that I needed to rest.

"Bacci ba na masu nema ba ne" (Sleep is not for those hustling), I'd tell her, forcing a smile she never quite believed.

I got up and walked to the window. Outside, the street was dark. The neighbour's generator had finally cut off, leaving the neighbourhood in that heavy, dusty silence that blankets the North just before the world wakes up for Fajr.

Thirteen years.

That was how long it had been since I last felt like a complete person, thirteen years since the accident, since the hospital, since the day I woke up and found out my life had been stolen from me by a man who thought my poverty made me unworthy of his niece.

I turned away from the window to grab a glass of water.

Bzzt. Bzzt.

My phone vibrated against the nightstand.

I froze.

I didn't get calls at this time. My colleagues knew better and Hajiya was asleep.

I picked it up. The screen light was harsh in the dark room.

Unknown Number.

My thumb hovered over the red button. Usually, I'd ignore it. Probably a wrong number or one of those relentless scammers. But tonight... something felt different. The buzzing didn't stop. It felt urgent. Deliberate.

I slid my thumb across the screen.

"Salaam Alaikum?"

Silence.

But not the empty silence of a dead line. It was the living, breathing silence of a connection. I could hear the faint static, the shallow, shaky breath on the other end.

"Who is this?" I asked, my voice rough from disuse.

Nothing. Just that breathing. It sounded... terrified.

"Idan baza ayi magana ba zan kashe wayana fa" (If you're not going to speak, I'm hanging up).

"Hammad."

The glass of water slipped from my hand.

It hit the rug with a dull thud, water soaking into the fibres, but I didn't look down. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. My heart slammed against my ribs like a bird trapped in a cage.

I knew that voice.

It was the voice of a girl who was supposed to be dead.

"Nana?" I whispered.

The name scraped out of my throat, foreign and familiar all at once.

On the other end, the breathing hitched. A sound that might have been a sob.

"Nana... ke ce? (is that you?) Talk to me. Please."

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

It was barely a sound. Just air and regret.

"Where are you?" I shouted, gripping the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. "Where have you been? Nana...."

Click.