ALTAR OF DRIFT | PART FIFTEEN
The lights in the living room glowed softly against the polished tiled floor, reflecting off the glass center table positioned between two leather sofas. The reflections shimmered faintly, broken only by the slow movement of shadows along the walls.
A standing fan hummed near the corner, its steady rhythm stirring the sheer curtains that swayed by the wide glass window overlooking the compound.
Outside, a security light flickered on, casting long, stretching shadows across parked cars and neatly trimmed hedges, the quiet of evening settling in layers.
Zionel sat alone on the leather sofa, his suit jacket draped over the armrest, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled neatly to his elbows. A tablet rested idle on his lap, its screen dark, forgotten. His fingers were interlocked, thumbs moving slightly, counting thoughts he had not yet given words.
The weight of the day’s meetings lingered on him, visible in the heavier rise and fall of his chest, as though responsibilities still pressed against his spirit.
Footsteps echoed lightly from the hallway, measured but deliberate, breaking the stillness.
Elara appeared at the entrance to the living room, adjusting the sleeve of her dress as she stepped in. Her heels clicked once against the tiles before she stopped. She lingered there, arms folded loosely, eyes fixed on Zionel.
Her head tilted just slightly, studying him the way one studies a reflection that suddenly feels unfamiliar.
The ceiling fan brushed cool air across her face, carrying the faint trace of her perfume into the room, but she remained still.
She took a slow step forward, her presence quietly shifting the air. Her voice emerged carefully, cutting through the hum of the fan with restraint and intent.
Elara (carefully):
“Zionel… can I ask you something?”
The sound of her voice drew his attention immediately. Zionel lifted his eyes, straightened a little, and set the tablet aside on the glass center table. The faint tap of glass against metal echoed softly in the room.
His tone was calm, steady, carrying readiness and attentiveness.
Zionel (calm):
“Of course. What is it?”
The room seemed to lean in, the shadows stretching as Elara walked closer, stopping near the edge of the rug. Her fingers uncrossed and pressed lightly into her palm, nails grazing skin.
She exhaled slowly through her nose, steadying herself before continuing, the weight of her thoughts evident in the pause.
Her words followed, measured and deliberate, carrying unease beneath the surface.
Elara (measured):
“I’ve noticed… there’s someone who’s been trying to see you. Repeatedly.”
A subtle tension moved across Zionel’s face. His brow tightened just a little as he leaned back, resting his shoulders against the sofa. The fan continued its steady hum, but the air between them grew heavier.
His voice was casual, measured, carrying acknowledgment without revealing much.
Zionel (casual):
“Yes. I’ve heard.”
Elara’s eyes narrowed—not sharply, but with a probing curiosity that carried quiet concern. The security light outside flickered again, shadows shifting along the walls as if responding to the tension.
Her tone came again, firmer now, pressing into the silence.
Elara (probing):
“Who is he to you?”
Zionel shrugged faintly, one corner of his mouth lifting as though to dismiss the subject entirely. His words carried an ease that contrasted sharply with the tightness in the room.
Zionel (dismissive):
“Probably just someone curious. You know how people are. They see what the Lord is doing, and they want to get close… maybe tap into grace… or favor.”
Elara stepped forward once more. The overhead light caught the edge of her hair as she shook her head slowly, unease settling deeper into her expression. The curtains fluttered behind her, brushing softly against the window frame.
Her voice lowered, weighted with instinct and caution.
Elara (uneasy):
“I don’t know, Zionel. Or maybe he wants more than that. There’s something about it that doesn’t sit right with me.”
She paused, her gaze flicking briefly toward the window, then back to him, as though the night itself had whispered something she could not ignore.
Her lips parted, then pressed together again before she continued, her tone dropping further, cautious and apprehensive.
Elara (cautious):
“What if he’s not coming for admiration? What if he’s coming to—”
Zionel’s hand lifted slightly, palm open, cutting gently through the air. The motion was calm but firm, stopping her words before they could take shape. The fan seemed to fade into the background, and the room fell into a deeper quiet.
His voice followed, controlled and authoritative.
Zionel (firm):
“Elara.”
She stopped mid-sentence. The silence thickened, pressing against the walls as if the house itself was listening.
Zionel leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes steady and unwavering as they met hers. The reflection of the living room lights shimmered faintly in his gaze.
His tone was controlled, calm, carrying authority and reason.
Zionel (calm):
“Guessing is harmful. It breeds fear where there’s no evidence.”
He straightened, waving one hand dismissively, as though brushing away an invisible thought. The gesture carried finality, leaving little room for argument.
His voice was firm and final, leaving no room for debate.
Zionel (firm):
“I don’t have time for him. Or for speculations. Let’s not focus on that.”
Silence settled between them, heavy and unresolved. Elara held his gaze for a moment longer, searching his face, then looked away. Her jaw tightened as she nodded once, the movement stiff and lacking agreement.
Without another word, she turned sharply and walked back down the hallway. Her footsteps grew sharper, echoing against the tiles as she disappeared into the bedroom.
The bedroom door closed with a muted thud, sealing the tension behind it.
Inside the room, the curtains stirred gently as the air conditioner clicked on, filling the space with a low, steady hum.
Elara moved to the bedside, picked up her phone, and hesitated for half a breath. The glow of the screen illuminated her face, highlighting the strain in her eyes as her fingers moved with practiced certainty.
Her thumb hovered briefly, then tapped a familiar contact. She raised the phone to her ear and began to pace slowly beside the bed.
The call connected, the faint electronic tone giving way to a living presence.
Her voice slipped into the line, controlled but edged with urgency.
Elara (strained):
“Aunty Seraphina...”
Seraphina’s response came through smooth and composed, her tone unhurried, as though she had anticipated the call long before it arrived.
Seraphina (cool):
“You sound tense.”
Elara continued pacing beside the bed, her steps slow, her voice lowered as if the walls themselves could overhear.
Elara (irritated):
“Something is wrong. Someone has been trying to see Zionel. A man. Persistent. He keeps coming.”
There was a brief pause on the line. The air conditioner hummed steadily, then Seraphina’s soft, knowing chuckle slid through the speaker, calm and unsettling.
Her tone followed, probing with quiet precision.
Seraphina (measured):
“And Zionel?”
Elara stopped pacing. Her eyes fixed on the far wall as she listened, her grip on the phone tightening until her knuckles paled. Her reply came tight and restrained.
Elara (tight):
“He brushed it off. Said it’s nothing. That the man is just curious.”
Seraphina’s tone sharpened, still calm, but edged with certainty that carried authority and intent beyond the moment. Her voice was coldly confident, smooth yet commanding attention.
Seraphina (coldly):
“Curiosity doesn’t knock that hard.”
Elara sank onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath her weight as she clutched the phone closer. The city lights filtered faintly through the curtains, casting dim patterns across the walls.
Her concern surfaced openly now, fear laced with urgency. Her tone was concerned, tinged with worry and caution.
Elara (concerned):
“I don’t like it. What if he wants to interfere?”
A pause followed. In the silence, Elara’s shoulders eased slightly, as if the voice on the other end had wrapped around her like assurance, steady and commanding.
Seraphina’s reply came calm and deliberate, carrying an undercurrent of resolve.
Seraphina (reassuring):
“Don’t worry. If his intention is to destroy our plan… he will be silenced.”
Elara’s lips curved into a faint, restrained smile. The tension in her shoulders melted as she exhaled slowly, the room seeming to breathe with her. Her voice softened, accepting.
Elara (softly):
“Alright.”
The call ended. The screen went dark, leaving only the hum of the air conditioner and the distant sounds of the city beyond the compound walls.
Elara remained seated on the bed, the faint glow of the city slipping through the curtains. Her fingers tightened around the phone as the house continued its quiet rhythm—unaware of the weight that had just settled within its walls, and the unseen forces now stirring in the silence that followed.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Written by Agbemawle Atsu Norvishi
© All Rights Reserved. Shared freely to bless and inspire.
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