The rehearsal hall still echoed with footsteps and laughter as students spilled out, ending the day's practice session. Angel remained behind just a little longer, arms crossed, gaze distant. It hadn't been a bad day. In fact, things were shifting—slowly, like clouds before a storm, but shifting all the same.
Earlier, at lunch, something new had happened.
She didn't sit alone.
Mimi had waved her over, grinning with that easy smile of hers. Kelly V had already shoved her tray aside to make space, and Karen—loud, talkative, and completely herself—had patted the empty seat beside her like it belonged to Angel.
Angel had hesitated. Just a beat. Then she walked over and sat down.
They talked about everything: the dance and singing showcase, who had a crush on who, which teacher was secretly scary, and how Jordan didn't talk much but still somehow owned the whole school's attention whenever he walked by.
Angel didn't say much. But she laughed once. A small one.
And that was enough for them.
Jordan hadn't joined their table. He never did. He had his own circle—smart, chill boys like him who didn't say much unless they had something to say. But Angel noticed that when Jordan did pass their table, he gave her a nod. And she nodded back.
She wasn't sure what that meant yet.
She liked Mimi. Liked Kelly V, even though she talked fast and asked too many questions. Karen was still growing on her, but she admired her confidence. Angel wasn't used to friends—not anymore—but she didn't mind sitting with them.
Not yet used to them.
But not pushing them away either.
After the final bell, Angel made her way to the staff wing. Miss Dean—her old homeschool teacher—had asked to see her. She already knew that Miss Dean worked here, so it wasn't surprising. In fact, Miss Dean had been the one to introduce her to the school after three quiet months of homeschooling. A gentle nudge, not a push.
She knocked once and stepped inside.
Miss Dean's office looked the same as ever: calm, welcoming, with books everywhere and the smell of tea in the air.
"I was expecting you," Miss Dean said with a warm smile.
Angel sat down without waiting to be asked.
"I didn't come here for a pep talk," Angel said, not unkindly.
"I didn't plan one," Miss Dean answered with a grin. "Just checking in. You've been here a few weeks now."
Angel nodded. "It's different."
"And?"
"I don't hate it."
"That's a good beginning."
They talked a bit more. Nothing too deep, but enough. Angel admitted that she didn't like being noticed too much, but somehow still managed to stand out. Miss Tilda reminded her gently that there was nothing wrong with that.
When Angel stood to leave, Miss Dean said quietly, "You're healing. In your own way."
Angel didn't reply. But she didn't disagree either.
When she got home, the driver stopped at the gate like usual. As she walked into the house, she immediately noticed someone new—a tall woman in neat clothes waiting near the staircase.
"Good evening, Miss Angel," the woman said. "I'm Mma. Your father arranged for me to take care of you."
Angel blinked. "Like a nanny?"
"Yes."
"I don't need someone following me around."
"I won't follow you around," Mma said calmly. "I'm not here to make pancakes or clean your room. I'm just here to help."
Angel raised an eyebrow. "We'll see."
Mma smiled slightly. "We will."
That night, Angel stayed in her room longer than usual, her books open but unread. She thought about school. About the way Kelly V leaned into conversations like she didn't care who listened. About how Karen spoke without filters. About Mimi, who smiled even when she looked tired. She liked them.
Even if she didn't want to admit it yet.
She heard her father's footsteps down the hallway—slow, heavy. She followed them in her mind to his study.
Captain Okoro sat alone in that room of medals and shadows. The walls held pictures of him in uniform—back when his eyes still smiled. He had led men through gunfire. He had stood in border towns and cleared villages and trained soldiers who feared nothing.
But nothing had prepared him for this kind of silence.
No mission had taught him how to grieve a son, a wife, a child not yet born.
So he sat alone, a photograph in his hands. A younger version of himself in it, standing proudly beside his wife. Andrew, still a boy, sitting on his shoulders. And Angel, small and curious, held tight in her mother's arms.
A tear slid down his cheek.
He wiped it away quickly.
When he heard Angel's soft steps near his door, he straightened, placed the photo facedown, and pulled the door open with that usual smile.
"You're home," he said.
"Yeah."
"You look tired."
"I guess."
He gave a little nod, as if that was all the conversation he needed.
"I'm going to bed," Angel said.
"Alright. Goodnight."
She turned, then paused.
"Goodnight, Adadi."
He froze. That word.
She hadn't called him that in over a year.
He didn't say anything. But behind the door, when it closed again, he sat in the quiet... and let the ache soften into something gentler.
Something like hope.