When Hearts Whispers – Episodes
Sunday came quiet and bright. Huye wore its soft morning like a shawl. Kevin boiled water, poured it into a metal flask, and added tea leaves the way Aline liked; strong, a little sweet. The green thread bracelet on his wrist itched lightly as if reminding him to be steady.
He
walked to the lake with slow steps. The big tree waited with a wide, kind
shade. Birds fussed in the branches. Somewhere nearby, a radio hummed a gospel
song from a small shop. He spread a kitenge on the grass, placed two cups
though he was alone, and set the flask between them.
Six
weeks, he thought. Only one call a
night. At nine. He breathed out and tried to smile. But his mind was not
quiet.
What if Kigali changes her? What if those art rooms smell like new ideas and she forgets the old ones like me? What if someone there understands her drawings better than I do? What if my world; this lake, this bench, this simple tea is too small for her big dreams?
A
boy chased a plastic bottle along the path, laughing. Kevin’s lips curved; then
his heart dropped again.
He
took out his phone. 10:23 a.m. He typed: Safe there? Then erased it. He
did not want to sound like a guard. He wanted to sound like a partner.
Footsteps.
Sandrine arrived, swinging a paper bag. “Don’t tell me you brought two cups to
talk to air,” she teased, dropping beside him. The bag opened to amandazi and
roasted groundnuts. “I’m the temporary Aline of Huye.”
“She
would laugh at that,” Kevin said. His smile stayed this time.
Sandrine
sipped from a cup he offered. “You look like someone who didn’t sleep.”
“I
slept,” he said. “But my head ran a marathon.”
She
raised an eyebrow. “Say it.”
He
looked at the water. “I’m scared. Not of her leaving. Of me staying behind.”
Sandrine
chewed slowly. “You fear losing, or you fear not being enough?”
He
met her eyes. “Both.”
She
nodded the kind of nod older sisters give without being older. “Fear doesn’t
mean your love is weak. It means it is real. But, Kevin, listen: don’t use fear
to control her. Use trust to grow her.” She stood, brushing crumbs from her
skirt. “Nine is far. Go home. Rest. You’ll hear her voice tonight.” She
grinned. “And don’t cry like a baby if the network misbehaves.”
He
laughed, the sound small but honest. “Go disturb someone else,” he said, and
she left, calling back, “Green hills don’t rush; they just stand and keep.”
Afternoon
stretched. Kevin cleaned his mother’s veranda, helped Patrice carry a sack of
charcoal, washed the cups, and tried not to look at the clock every ten
minutes. At 5:07 p.m., a message pinged.
Aline: Orientation finished. They put us in a hostel near
Nyamirambo. Two girls in my room, kind and noisy. The studio smells like pencil
dust and new hope. At nine, I call. Don’t move from that tree.
He
smiled at the phone, then held the screen to his chest like a prayer. Two
girls in my room. Safe. Good.
But
the next message stirred the water in him.
Aline: The trainer called Emmanuel says my lines are “honest.”
He stood behind me and showed me how to shade with the side of the pencil. My
butterfly almost flew off the page.
Kevin
stared at the word behind longer than it deserved. The fear in his chest
walked around like a watchman.
Behind her? Close enough to smell her hair? He sees what I can’t; an artist’s secret language. What if “honest lines” become honest feelings? I’m here with a flask and two cups. He’s there with pencils and eyes that read her drawings.
The
bracelet bit his skin again. He pressed it down. “Small things are big things,”
he whispered, and poured tea into the empty cup, watching steam lift like a
thin promise.
Evening
softened to gold. Church bells from far away counted the hour. He returned to
the tree as the sun slid behind the hills. The lake wore a quiet face.
Fishermen laughed as they pulled a boat to shore; the smell of sambaza fried
somewhere down the path. Kevin placed his phone on the kitenge, screen up,
brightness high, as if light could pull the call nearer.
The
first ring didn’t come at nine. It buzzed at 8:41 p.m. Unknown number. Kigali
code.
He
answered fast. “Hello?”
A
calm voice: “Good evening. Is this Kevin?”
His
throat tightened. “Yes.”
“I’m
Emmanuel, from the studio. Sorry to call. Aline left her sketchbook by the
light table. She’s already back at the hostel. She asked me to let you know
it’s safe with me. She will pick it tomorrow.”
Kevin’s
mouth was dry. “Thank you,” he said. The words tasted like metal.
“I
saw your bracelet yesterday at the bus park,” Emmanuel added softly, as if
trying to be kind. “Green thread. Nice symbol. Take care.”
The
call ended. The quiet around the tree was not the nice kind. It was heavy, like
the air before rain.
He
has her sketchbook. He noticed my bracelet. He is watching the story too.
He is in the rooms where her butterflies fly.
The
clock on the phone showed 8:44. Kevin’s hands shook. He typed Call me now
then deleted it. He typed Good luck tomorrow then deleted that too. He
took a breath slow, steady, like Uncle Patrice taught him when fixing a
stubborn bolt.
Birds
settled. A goat called to another goat somewhere near the road. The first night
wind touched his face.
At
exactly 9:00 p.m., his phone lit up: Aline Calling… The sound of it
found his bones.
“Kevin!”
Her voice arrived like warm bread.
He
swallowed his storm. “You sound…happy.”
“I
am tired and happy,” she said, laughing a little. “The city runs like a
long-legged child. We got lost and found ourselves many times. My roommate,
Imani, sings when she cooks. The corridor smells like onions and dreams.”
He
laughed despite himself. “Onions and dreams. That’s a real recipe.”
They
talked about small things that are not small, pillows too thin, windows too
loud, the way pencils feel different when your heart is nervous. She asked
about the lake; he described the sunset as if she were blind and he were her
eyes. The green thread warmed against his skin.
Then
Kevin’s fear, tired of hiding, stepped out.
“Aline,”
he said, “a man called me; Emmanuel. He said you left your sketchbook.”
She
went quiet. For a second the network hissed like a snake. “Yes,” she said
finally. “I was overexcited. I left it. He ran after me but I was already
outside. He is the teacher, Kevin. He is kind. He looks at lines like a farmer
looks at rain. He wants the best from us. That’s all.”
Kevin
looked at the second cup he had poured for her. The steam was gone now. His
voice, when it came, was honest and a little raw. “I felt…small when he called.
Like I was standing outside a window, watching you in a bright room I can’t
enter.”
“Come
in,” she whispered. “There is space for you in my bright room.”
He
did not answer quickly. Say the truth, his heart said. Say it before
jealousy writes its own story.
“I
am afraid,” he said. “Afraid of losing you to big roads and bright rooms.
Afraid that my love is simple when yours is full of colors. I want to keep you,
but I don’t want to cage you. I’m…learning how to do both.”
The
line held a long gentle silence. Then she breathed. “Thank you for telling me
the truth. Kevin, listen, there is a boy in me who is also afraid. She fears
failing the review. She fears that if I shine, people will say I forgot where I
came from. She fears not being enough for Kigali, or for you. But I told her
this: Promises grow with truth.”
He
closed his eyes. The words were the same ones she wrote under the butterfly.
They felt like a hand on his back.
Her
voice softened. “I won’t hide Emmanuel’s kindness. I won’t hide my dreams. And
I won’t hide that when nine comes, I need your voice to tie my day to the
ground. Can we do that? Can we be honest and still brave?”
He
smiled into the dark. “Yes.”
They
spoke about Sunday plans. He would sit by the tree; she would stand by a hostel
window with bars painted white; they would look at the same moon. He told her
Sandrine said green hills don’t rush. She laughed and said Sandrine should be
paid for advice.
“Time,”
Aline whispered. “The matron is telling us to sleep. Early studio tomorrow.”
“Go
shine,” he said.
“Keep
the flask warm,” she said.
They
waited, neither wanting to end. Then the line clicked off by itself, as if shy.
Kevin
stayed under the tree. The lake wore the night like a secret. He packed the
cups, folded the kitenge, and slid the butterfly sketch back into his wallet wings
still ready.
On
the path home, his phone buzzed again. A picture from an unknown Kigali number
filled the screen: Aline’s butterfly pinned to a studio board with a small note
under it “Candidate Uwimana, Monday Review, 7:30.” In the corner, a
shadow of a man’s shoulder crossed the paper. The caption read: “She’s
special. Protect this.”
Kevin
stopped walking. “Protect this? Protect what?” The bracelet dug into his
wrist. The streetlamp above him flickered, once, then steadied.
He
typed a reply: Who is this? But before he could send it, the same number
started calling.
He
stood under the light, the night holding its breath, and answered. “Hello?”
A
quiet voice said, “Kevin, I don’t want to scare you. But someone tried to take
Aline’s sketchbook tonight.”
The
call cut. The screen went black.
Kevin stared at his reflection on the glass; small, worried, stubborn. Then he began to run.
End of Episode 8! Stay tuned for Episode 9
← Previous: Episode 7 – Truth at the Huye Bus Park | Next: Episode 9 – Trust on Trial under Kigali's Moonlight →
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