The fire crackled softly as the last group settled into place-St. Anthony's boys had joined the girls from Our Lady of Fatima, St. Peter's, and St. Andrew's . The night air was still, wrapped in a hush that even laughter dared not disturb.
The Tuareg elder stepped forward, her scarf flowing like part of the desert itself.
Her voice was quiet. Measured.
"There was once a girl born under the crescent moon.
She was soft-spoken, with eyes that asked too many questions.
Many adored her.
Some used her kindness like it was theirs to take.
Others loved her...only when it was easy.
But no one ever stayed long enough to understand her."
A few students shifted. The fire cast soft gold across their faces.
"She kept quiet.
She smiled.
She learned to carry her disappointments like folded cloth.
But inside her...was a storm that waited."
Jennifer stared at the flame.
She didn't mean to think of Miss Emily.
She didn't mean to think of Kevin.
But she did.
And she hated that she did.
Across from her, Kevin sat between two boys from St. Anthony. She wasn't smiling. Neither was he. But when his eyes rose to meet Jennifer's, they both paused.
Just a breath.
Just a flash of shared knowing.
Jennifer looked away.
Beside her, Cynthia pulled the shawl tighter over her shoulders. She leaned in, her voice barely a whisper.
"Jen...do you think that girl in the story...do you think she ever found peace?"
Jennifer didn't answer right away.
Her eyes were still on the fire, but her face had no expression. Only a quiet pull at her lips.
"I don't know," she said softly.
"But I think she stopped looking for someone to understand her."
Cynthia said nothing after that .
The fire burned lower.
The Tuareg elder sat down in silence.
And the stars above blinked quietly, as if they, too, were waiting for something to make sense.
...
The fire had faded into soft embers, and so had the noise. One by one, the groups were led to their buses, boys from St. Andrew's, St. Peter, and then finally, Our Lady of Fatima.
The ride to the hotel was quiet. No one really talked. Jennifer leaned her forehead against the window, watching the trees vanish into the night.
By the time they arrived, the girls were lined up at the reception, receiving room cards and instructions. Jennifer stood somewhere in the middle, rubbing her tired arms, eyes still distant from the firelight stories.
"Mwikali"
She turned.
Clara stood beside her, dressed in a soft hoodie, her curls tied back, holding her card.
"We're in the same room," she said, her voice gentle.
Jennifer didn't answer. She didn't smile, either.
But she didn't say no.
Clara didn't explain further. She simply reached for Jennifer's small bag and started walking up the stairs, as if it had always been decided.
Jennifer followed.
Silently.
Side by side.
Like they used to be.
The door clicked shut behind them.
The room was modest but clean-white curtains drawn halfway, and a single large bed neatly made, its pale sheets tucked in tight. A faint scent of pine soap hung in the air, probably from the staff.
Jennifer stepped slowly, her bag still clutched in her hand.
Clara was already inside. She dropped her small overnight bag by the chair and walked straight to the bathroom without saying much. Moments later, Jennifer could hear the shower running. The soft patter of water against tiles filled the silence like a veil between them.
Jennifer stood near the edge of the bed, her fingers tightening slightly on the strap of her bag. The echo of Miss Emily's voice from earlier still rang in her chest-sharp, disappointed, loud.
She sat, slowly, not really knowing how to move from there.
The bathroom door creaked open. Clara came out, drying her hair with a towel, her expression unreadable, calm.
She looked at Jennifer only once before saying,
"You should shower too. Supper won't wait for us."
Her voice was flat-not cold, but not soft either. She crossed over to her side of the bed, placed her towel down, and reached for her lotion like it was just another evening on just another school trip.
Jennifer didn't answer. She stood up, walked to the bathroom, and closed the door gently behind her.
The silence wasn't bitter.
But it wasn't warm either.
The door clicked softly behind Jennifer as she stepped back into the room. The scent clung to her skin, and the cool air inside the room met the steam still rising from her damp hair. Her white towel wrapped around her shoulders, her steps hesitant.
Clara was already in her pyjamas-pale peach cotton, loose and soft. She sat at the edge of the bed, brushing through her own hair lazily. When she saw Jennifer walk in, she set the brush down and patted the space in front of her.
"Come here," she said, gently. "I'll dry your hair."
Jennifer hesitated for a second, then walked over and sat down on the floor between Clara's legs, facing away.
The towel was lifted from her shoulders.
Clara began drying her hair-slowly, rhythmically, like she'd done it before for someone she loved. Her hands were firm but careful, working through the strands with patience. She didn't rush.
Jennifer closed her eyes.
There was something about the way Clara moved-almost like she'd memorized this from someone else. A mother, maybe. Or a sister, long ago.
The silence stretched, quiet but full.
Then Clara spoke-low and calm.
"You shouldn't be too angry at Miss Emily."
Her hands paused for a moment, then kept moving gently.
"She acts the way she does because she cares. Even if it doesn't always make sense slightly-just a breath, just enough.
Clara didn't press. She kept drying the ends of her hair, smoothing down each strand with her fingers.
"It's okay to be upset," she added. "But don't carry it alone.
Then she said nothing more.
...
Only the soft sound of fabric moving through wet hair remained, steady and soothing.
The two of them descended the stairs side by side, the light from the hall casting warm shadows on the walls. The soft hum of students chatting below floated up, mingling with her distant clatter of cutlery.
They entered the dining hall just as a group of girls burst into laughter near the far corner. Jennifer slowed for a moment, scanning the table.
Her eyes paused-Miss Emily was already seated, her expression unreadable, fingers casually scrolling her phone. Jennifer hadn't expected to see her so soon. For a second, her chest felt tight.
Then her gaze drifted-there was Angela. Quiet and alone again at the edge of a table, picking at her plate. A part of Jennifer stirred. She looked at Clara and murmured, "I think I should join my friends...they-"
Clara cut her off gently. "No, no. Today, you're dining with your big sister." Her tone was light, playful even, but firm.
Jennifer hesitated. Her eyes flicked once more to Angela, then back to Clara, who had already taken a seat next to Miss Emily without asking.
Jennifer followed.
Miss Emily didn't look up. Her eyes stayed fixed on her phone, her thumb scrolling slowly as if nothing unusual had happened.
Jennifer sat down in silence, not sure whether she was being punished...or protected.
Clara waved her hand with a gentle flick, and almost instantly, a waiter appeared by their table. Without needing to glance at the menu, she murmured something quietly and passed over a small card to confirm the payment.
Jennifer sat stiffy, her hands folded in her lap. Miss Emily hadn't said a word since they sat. Her eyes occasionally lifted from her phone, stealing brief glances at Jennifer-but her face stayed unreadable , her lips pressed in that firm, composed line.
Soon the food arrived.
A broad, elegant plate shaped like a leaf was placed at the center of the table. Resting on it was a whole grilled tilapia, golden and crisp, garnished with thin lemon slices and finely chopped herbs. Surrounding it were small bowls-one with steamed garden vegetables glistening oil, another with soft coconut rice, and a third filled with spiced tomato sauce.
Miss Emily looked up.
Her eyes softened.
A faint light reached her face-barely a smile, but a shift. Something alive.
Clara leaned slightly toward her. "Your favorite," she said simply, her voice just loud enough to be heard.
Jennifer thought "Clara also know her favorite food?
Jennifer, now holding a fork she hadn't touched, looked up from her untouched plate. Clara had already reached forward, breaking off a tender piece of fish and gently placing it onto Miss Emily's plate. Then, with the same fingers, she picked another piece-this time leaning toward Jennifer.
"Eat, Jenny," she said with a soft smile.
"You'll like it."
Jennifer blinked, watching Clara steal a perfectly crisp edge of the fish for herself as well.
And for a moment, Jennifer just sat there-watching the strange rhythm.
Clara serving Miss Emily.
Clara serving her.
Clara laughing softly, like she belonged to both.
Like a sister...or something else.
Then Clara leaned in slightly across the table, her voice soft but steady. "Jenny," she said, just loud enough for her to hear, " I assured Miss Emily there's no need to worry... you're still innocent."