CHAPTER 1: WALLS

Morning sunlight streamed through the blinds, painting faint golden lines across Nneka’s face. The alarm had long gone off, but she was already awake — she always was. Sleep didn’t come easy to those who had learned to live on guard.Morning sunlight streamed through the blinds, painting faint golden lines across Nneka’s face. The alarm had long gone off, but she was already awake — she always was. Sleep didn’t come easy to those who had learned to live on guard.

She sat at her small desk, flipping through a stack of architectural sketches. The blueprints were neat, precise — just like her life. Everything in Nneka’s world had a line, an order, a rule. No mistakes. No emotions out of place.She sat at her small desk, flipping through a stack of architectural sketches. The blueprints were neat, precise — just like her life. Everything in Nneka’s world had a line, an order, a rule. No mistakes. No emotions out of place.

Her roommate, Ada, poked her head out of the kitchen doorway, grinning.Her roommate, Ada, poked her head out of the kitchen doorway, grinning.

“Nneka, abeg rest small. You’ve been staring at those papers since six.”“Nneka, abeg rest small. You’ve been staring at those papers since six.”

Nneka looked up briefly and smiled. “Deadlines don’t care about sleep.”Nneka looked up briefly and smiled. “Deadlines don’t care about sleep.”

Ada laughed. “Neither do heartbreaks. But you wouldn’t know about that one, Miss Iron Heart.”Ada laughed. “Neither do heartbreaks. But you wouldn’t know about that one, Miss Iron Heart.”

Nneka rolled her eyes, pretending not to hear. She had heard it a hundred times — you’re too guarded, too cold, too careful. Maybe they were right. But they didn’t know the reason.Nneka rolled her eyes, pretending not to hear. She had heard it a hundred times — you’re too guarded, too cold, too careful. Maybe they were right. But they didn’t know the reason.

Her eyes fell briefly on a small framed picture at the corner of her desk — her mother, smiling beside a younger version of herself. Her father’s image had long been removed from that frame. She sighed quietly and turned it face down.Her eyes fell briefly on a small framed picture at the corner of her desk — her mother, smiling beside a younger version of herself. Her father’s image had long been removed from that frame. She sighed quietly and turned it face down.

She packed her things carefully, each item in its place. Her phone buzzed — her father’s name flashed on the screen. Her hand froze midair. The sound felt heavier than it should. After a long moment, she turned the phone face down and zipped it into her bag.She packed her things carefully, each item in its place. Her phone buzzed — her father’s name flashed on the screen. Her hand froze midair. The sound felt heavier than it should. After a long moment, she turned the phone face down and zipped it into her bag.

Some wounds, she had learned, healed only when ignored.Some wounds, she had learned, healed only when ignored.

At the office, the hum of printers and murmured conversations filled the open space. Nneka walked in with quiet confidence, her heels clicking softly against the tiled floor. Her colleagues respected her — her precision, her discipline, her ability to work through chaos without flinching.At the office, the hum of printers and murmured conversations filled the open space. Nneka walked in with quiet confidence, her heels clicking softly against the tiled floor. Her colleagues respected her — her precision, her discipline, her ability to work through chaos without flinching.

But behind that calmness was a woman still running from the echo of her mother’s cries.But behind that calmness was a woman still running from the echo of her mother’s cries.

Her boss, Mr. Anozie, passed by and gave her an approving nod. “Miss Nneka, good work on the Skyline Project. The client loved your design.”Her boss, Mr. Anozie, passed by and gave her an approving nod. “Miss Nneka, good work on the Skyline Project. The client loved your design.”

“Thank you, sir,” she replied, her voice steady but distant. Compliments rarely sank in; they just brushed past her like wind.“Thank you, sir,” she replied, her voice steady but distant. Compliments rarely sank in; they just brushed past her like wind.

During a short lunch break, Ada nudged her from the next desk.During a short lunch break, Ada nudged her from the next desk.

“You know, if you don’t open your heart one day, it’ll rust,” she teased.“You know, if you don’t open your heart one day, it’ll rust,” she teased.

Nneka smiled faintly. “Hearts don’t rust, Ada. They just learn to last longer when they’re never used.”Nneka smiled faintly. “Hearts don’t rust, Ada. They just learn to last longer when they’re never used.”

Ada chuckled. “You talk like love is a disease.”Ada chuckled. “You talk like love is a disease.”

Nneka’s eyes darkened a little. “Maybe it is. And I’ve seen the cure — distance.”Nneka’s eyes darkened a little. “Maybe it is. And I’ve seen the cure — distance.”

Ada raised a brow. “You and your deep talks. One day, someone will shake that philosophy of yours.”Ada raised a brow. “You and your deep talks. One day, someone will shake that philosophy of yours.”

Nneka said nothing. She just smiled thinly and looked out the window at the city below — cars moving, people rushing, life happening. Everyone seemed to be chasing something. She was only trying to stay still.Nneka said nothing. She just smiled thinly and looked out the window at the city below — cars moving, people rushing, life happening. Everyone seemed to be chasing something. She was only trying to stay still.

By the time the workday ended, the sky had begun to dim. The orange hue of sunset slipped through the glass walls of the office, washing everything in soft gold.By the time the workday ended, the sky had begun to dim. The orange hue of sunset slipped through the glass walls of the office, washing everything in soft gold.

Her phone buzzed again as she packed up. This time, it wasn’t her father. It was her mother.Her phone buzzed again as she packed up. This time, it wasn’t her father. It was her mother.

My daughter, please call me when you’re free. I just want to hear your voice.My daughter, please call me when you’re free. I just want to hear your voice.

Nneka read the message twice. Her heart softened a little. She knew her mother missed her — she missed her too — but every call ended with the same words: Forgive your father.Nneka read the message twice. Her heart softened a little. She knew her mother missed her — she missed her too — but every call ended with the same words: Forgive your father.

She typed a short reply — I’ll call you soon, Mum — then deleted it before sending.She typed a short reply — I’ll call you soon, Mum — then deleted it before sending.

That night, back in her apartment, she stood by the window as rain began to fall softly outside. The sound reminded her too much of that night years ago — the shouting, the fear, the promise she made to never love a man.That night, back in her apartment, she stood by the window as rain began to fall softly outside. The sound reminded her too much of that night years ago — the shouting, the fear, the promise she made to never love a man.

She whispered to herself, “I’m fine. I’ll always be fine.”She whispered to herself, “I’m fine. I’ll always be fine.”

But the truth lingered somewhere between the raindrops — she wasn’t fine. She was surviving, not living.But the truth lingered somewhere between the raindrops — she wasn’t fine. She was surviving, not living.

And deep inside, she knew that walls built to protect could also become prisons.And deep inside, she knew that walls built to protect could also become prisons.