Chapter 1 – The Girl at the Gate
The mansion rose like a ghost above the trees, beautiful and sad, like something left behind by time. Nokwanda adjusted her backpack as she stood before the tall black gate, heart pounding with a strange mix of hope and fear. The wind was dry. The day was quiet.
She was here for a job.
A very specific job — one no one seemed to last in for more than a few days.
The woman she was meant to care for was rich, bitter, broken, and trapped in a wheelchair after a terrible car accident. The last caregiver had left after three days. The one before had cried her way out of the house before nightfall. But Nokwanda wasn't afraid.
She needed this.
The gate buzzed and swung open.
A woman stood at the door of the house when Nokwanda approached — tall, graceful, dressed in soft browns and a light scarf. Her face was elegant, but her eyes looked tired — the way people look after fighting a silent battle for too long.
"You're the girl?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am. Nokwanda Dlamini."
"You're late."
"I'm sorry. The taxis—"
The woman raised her hand gently. "It's alright. Come inside."
Nokwanda stepped through the large doorway and into the cool, quiet world of the mansion. The walls were spotless, but the air felt heavy — like no one had laughed there in a long, long time.
"I'm Mrs. Mthembu," the woman said. "I'm Zenande's mother."
Nokwanda nodded. "Nice to meet you."
They sat in the lounge, and Nokwanda's eyes moved across the expensive furniture, the untouched décor, and the silence that seemed to breathe.
"I'll be honest," Mrs. Mthembu began. "This isn't an easy job. You'll be caring for my daughter — cooking for her, bathing her, helping her dress, cleaning her space, assisting with exercises, and… trying to survive her temper."
She said it without bitterness. Just truth.
"She's in a wheelchair?"
"Yes. Has been for ten months. She was driving the night of the crash. Her husband walked away with a scratch. She nearly died. He left her before she was even discharged from hospital. Couldn't 'handle it,' he said."
Nokwanda looked down, her chest tightening. "I'm sorry."
Mrs. Mthembu's face hardened slightly. "He was a coward. Zenande hasn't said his name since."
She folded her hands and continued.
"She doesn't go outside. Doesn't allow visitors. Doesn't talk to me unless necessary. She sits by the window every day. That's her whole world now. She won't say it, but she's angry, ashamed, and scared. She takes it out on anyone who gets close."
"I can handle that," Nokwanda said softly.
"Why?"
"Because I know what it feels like to be left behind. And I've never had the luxury to break."
Mrs. Mthembu's eyes softened. "You've never been a caregiver before?"
"No. But I'm good with people. And I learn fast."
Mrs. Mthembu stood. "I can't promise you safety. But I can promise that she needs someone… even if she doesn't want them."
Nokwanda stood too. "I'll stay. I won't leave her."
Her room was small but comfortable, tucked near the back of the house, across from Zenande's. After unpacking her things, Nokwanda asked one quiet question.
"May I… meet her?"
Mrs. Mthembu looked surprised. "Already?"
"I'd like to greet her."
The older woman hesitated, then sighed. "Be gentle. She doesn't like being stared at. She doesn't like being pitied."
"I won't pity her."
Mrs. Mthembu pointed upstairs. "Third door on the left. She always leaves it unlocked in case of emergency."
Nokwanda climbed the stairs slowly. The air grew stiller the closer she got. She paused outside the door, then knocked twice.
No answer.
She opened it carefully.
The room was large and filled with soft afternoon light. Curtains were half-drawn. On the far side, facing the window, sat a woman in a wheelchair, back straight, arms resting on the armrests.
Zenande.
She didn't turn around.
"I told my mother no more interviews," she said sharply.
"I'm not here to interview," Nokwanda replied. "I'm here to take care of you."
Zenande slowly turned her head.
Her beauty hit like a quiet wave — graceful features, rich brown skin, dark eyes that once held fire but now seemed made of ice. She looked at Nokwanda from head to toe — searching, guarded, unimpressed.
"You won't last," Zenande said.
"Maybe not," Nokwanda replied gently. "But I'm here now."
Zenande turned back to the window.
"You can go."
Nokwanda nodded and left, closing the door softly.
The next morning, Nokwanda rose early. She prepared Zenande's breakfast, helped her dress, and assisted with her stretches. Zenande never said thank you. She barely looked at her.
But she didn't tell her to leave either.
Each day followed a rhythm: wash, dress, feed, assist. Nokwanda worked quietly, never asking questions, never reacting to the coldness. Zenande gave her orders in short phrases. She stared out the window for hours.
And slowly, quietly…
Zenande began to notice her.
The way Nokwanda brushed her hair with care.
The way her hands were warm but steady.
The way she hummed softly in the kitchen, as if the silence didn't scare her.
Zenande hated how it made her feel.
She didn't know what to call the feeling.
She had loved before — or at least, she thought she had. But it was different. That was a man. A man who smiled when people were looking but walked away when things got hard. A man who said "I love you" but never saw her once the chair came.
But Nokwanda…
She was different.
She didn't treat her like glass.
She didn't talk down.
She didn't look at her like she was broken.
And for the first time in almost a year, Zenande's heart stirred.
A small fire. Quiet. Painful.
No, she thought. Don't. She's a girl. You're not… you don't…
But every time Nokwanda walked into the room, something tightened in her chest.
One afternoon, Zenande caught herself watching Nokwanda as she bent to pick up a dropped napkin. Her skin glowed in the light. Her eyes were thoughtful. Her presence was calming.
Zenande looked away, heart pounding.
What was happening to her?
Was she… was she feeling something?
No.
She couldn't.
She wouldn't.
But her chest said otherwise.
And every time Nokwanda touched her arm, helped her lift her legs, combed her hair — Zenande felt the fire grow.
That night, Nokwanda sat in her room, staring out the window.
She had never known what love looked like. Never been kissed. Never been chosen. But there was something about Zenande's silence that stayed with her long after she left the room.
Something… that felt like sorrow and strength wrapped into one.
And maybe — just maybe — a future.