Chapter 3 The unspoken

The following days unfolded like a gentle waltz - slow, repetitive, unhurried. Mornings were for tea, for books half-read beneath the shade of the neem tree, and for lavender clippings arranged in recycled jam jars across the windowsills. Afternoons were for light chores and the quiet companionship of birdsong. And evenings - evenings were for Nathaniel.

They never planned their encounters. He would be in the garden. She would appear with a watering can, a question about soil, or sometimes, with nothing at all. The conversations were brief, sometimes wordless. Yet, something passed between them - not intimacy, but attention. Care, unspoken.

One afternoon, while repotting a stubborn hibiscus bush near the back of the house, Adeline found herself stuck with a thorn. The prick was small, but the drop of blood surprised her - vivid against the pale skin of her palm.

She winced. "Well done, Adeline," she muttered.

"You should wear gloves."

The voice came from behind her. She turned - Nathaniel stood a few feet away, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

"I didn't see you," she said.

"I didn't mean to sneak up on you."

He walked over, reached into the pocket of his trousers, and produced a handkerchief. It was folded crisply, like a man who still observed small rituals of dignity. He extended it.

She hesitated. Then, without a word, she accepted the cloth and pressed it to her palm.

"It's nothing," she said.

"Still," he replied. "You should be careful."

His eyes lingered on her hand, not with urgency, but with something else - something softer. She felt it then - the silence between them was no longer empty. It was full. Brimming with everything unsaid.

"I'm not delicate," she offered, trying to dismiss the intensity she felt.

"No," he said. "You're not."

A beat passed. A breeze swept across the garden, rustling the leaves.

"You've changed the place already," he added, gesturing to the restored flowerbeds. "It's coming back to life."

"It's easier to fix plants than people," she replied, more to herself than to him.

He didn't respond immediately. Then, quietly: "You're not broken, Adeline."

She looked up. Their eyes met. For a moment, she forgot the garden, the thorns, the ache in her palm.

Then, as if catching himself, Nathaniel stepped back. "I'll leave you to it," he said, turning.

"Wait." The word escaped before she could restrain it.

He paused.

"You said the lavender belonged to your wife," Adeline said, her voice gentler now. "What was her name?"

He looked at her - surprised, perhaps, by the question.

"Naana," he said after a moment. "She loved the colour purple. Said it reminded her of royalty. Of dignity."

"She must've been remarkable."

"She was."

The silence returned. Not awkward, but reverent. Then, he nodded once and walked away, his strides long and certain, leaving her standing in the warmth of late afternoon, the handkerchief still pressed to her skin.

---

That evening, Adeline did not light a candle, nor open a book. She sat on the veranda, the moon low and golden, her thoughts tangled like ivy. There was something noble in Nathaniel's restraint - and something tragic. She sensed that his grief was not loud, not weeping in corners or drowning in whiskey. No - his was the kind of sorrow that built walls of lavender, tended gardens, and spoke kindly to strangers.

She wondered if hers looked the same.

Aunt Efua called the next morning. As always, her voice filled the room before she did.

"Adeline! My darling niece, how are you? Is the house still standing? Have the spiders claimed the kitchen?"

Adeline laughed. "It's fine. Peaceful, actually."

"Peaceful," Aunt Efua repeated, suspiciously. "That's how city people say they're lonely."

"I'm not lonely," Adeline replied, though she wasn't quite sure it was true.

"Have you met Nathaniel Boadi yet?"

Adeline blinked. "I have."

"Tall, handsome, always smells like thyme and sorrow? That one?"

A slow smile formed on her lips. "Yes, that one."

"Good. Be kind to him. He's been through enough. But he's solid - dependable. A man who still believes in watering flowers and burying grief deep. Not like these Accra boys with shiny shoes and shallow hearts."

"Auntie..."

"I'm only saying. Sometimes what we need is not excitement, but stillness. Someone who plants seeds."

When the call ended, Adeline sat in stillness, the phone still pressed to her chest. Nathaniel had not flirted, had not even smiled much. And yet, something in her had begun to shift - not like lightning, but like rain: soft, persistent, and impossible to ignore.