The words hit like a bullet.
"Sandra. Junior is missing."
Her mother's voice trembled on the other end of the line, the connection crackling faintly between breaths. But the panic… the panic came through clear as a bell.
Sandra froze.
James stepped forward, catching the look in her eyes before she even said it aloud.
"My brother… He's gone."
She lowered the phone slowly, her fingers trembling as if her whole body had turned to water.
James didn't ask any questions.
He didn't need to.
"Let's go," he said quietly.
They moved fast.
No time to pack.
No time to explain.
By the time they reached the car, Sandra was already dialing again—her hands unsteady, her chest tight.
Her mother answered again, tears in her voice.
"He left a note. Said he was going to find you. That he was tired of waiting."
"When?" Sandra asked.
"This morning. Around seven. I was hanging clothes. When I came back… he was gone."
James turned on the ignition.
Sandra pressed the phone tighter against her ear.
"Did he take anything?"
"Just his small backpack. And the drawing you left under his pillow."
Sandra's heart shattered all over again.
That was the last thing she had given him—a sketch of a kite he once said he dreamed about flying, high above the hills of Kanyanya.
Now he was out there.
Alone.
Looking for her.
"Don't worry," she whispered to her mother. "We're coming. We'll find him."
James didn't speak as he drove.
But his grip on the steering wheel said enough.
They were both breaking.
Silently.
Together.
The road back to Kampala stretched out like a bad dream.
Sandra sat in the passenger seat, hugging her knees to her chest, her eyes locked on the window but not really seeing anything.
James drove fast—but not recklessly. Every turn, every bump, every passing car sharpened his focus. His mind raced, retracing every possible step Junior could have taken.
But in the silence of the car, something else was moving.
Something deep.
Something old.
Sandra broke it first.
"I should never have left," she whispered.
James didn't look at her. "You needed to breathe."
"I abandoned him."
"You didn't."
She turned her head, eyes brimming with emotion.
"He's just a boy. He's never even left the neighborhood alone before. He doesn't know which taxi to take. He doesn't even carry a phone."
James kept his eyes on the road.
"He'll be okay."
"You don't know that."
He finally looked at her.
"No. I don't. But I have to believe it. Because if I don't—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
And Sandra didn't press.
The tension in the car was heavy.
Like Kampala dust before a storm.
They reached the outskirts of the city in under four hours. James didn't wait for directions. He knew the route to Kanyanya by heart now. The gates of the house were slightly ajar, and Agnes stood just inside, her face pale and twisted with worry.
Sandra rushed out before the car even fully stopped.
"Mummy!"
Agnes ran toward her and pulled her into an embrace.
They stood there for a moment, both crying, both shaking.
James followed behind slowly.
His eyes swept the compound.
Empty.
No Junior.
"He left this," Agnes said, handing Sandra the note again.
It was folded into four neat squares.
Sandra opened it.
In Junior's familiar scrawl, it read:
> "Dear Sandra,
I want to find you. I don't like when people fight because of me. I'm sorry for being sick all the time. Maybe if I find you, mummy will smile again. Don't be scared. I'll be okay. Love, Junior."
Sandra's hands trembled.
She pressed the note to her chest.
James turned to Agnes.
"Any idea which direction he went?"
"A neighbor said they saw him walking toward Ntinda stage."
James nodded.
"I'll check cameras."
He walked away already dialing a number.
Sandra stayed behind, pacing the small sitting room while James stepped outside to make calls. He was methodical. Focused. Ruthless in the way he moved through the steps.
"Traffic Command?" he said into the phone. "I need all CCTV footage from the Ntinda junction this morning. Between seven and eight. Look for a boy. About nine years old. Backpack. Blue jumper."
He paused.
"Yes. His name is Junior Namatovu. I'll send you a picture."
He hung up, forwarded the photo from his files, and called another number.
"Richard, I need access to the KCCA public transport network log."
Pause.
"Now."
Inside the house, Sandra was still clutching the note like a lifeline.
Immy arrived not long after.
Her face was tear-streaked, her hands wringing nervously.
"I came as soon as I heard," she said, voice cracking.
Agnes didn't answer.
Sandra looked at her.
"Why are you here?"
"To help."
Sandra's eyes were tired. Distant.
"You helped enough already."
Immy stepped back.
Ashamed.
"I'll go check at the bus park," she whispered, and left.
---
James returned twenty minutes later.
He had something.
"He boarded the wrong taxi," he said. "One headed toward Gayaza Road."
Sandra stood immediately. "Where is it now?"
"They dropped him near Bweyogerere. He got off before the last stop. No one's seen him since."
James watched her face.
The panic was building again.
But this time—she didn't break.
She took a deep breath.
"Let's go."
---
They drove again.
This time, the streets were busier.
People everywhere. Cars honking. Radios playing. The city hadn't paused for their crisis.
Sandra kept her eyes open, scanning every sidewalk, every boda, every face that passed.
They stopped at three different stages.
Asked questions.
Showed photos.
Some people remembered seeing a boy that looked like Junior.
One woman said he was crying.
Said he asked about the "bus to Mbale."
Sandra nearly collapsed when she heard that.
"He was trying to find me," she whispered. "He really thought he could."
James placed a steadying hand on her shoulder.
"We'll find him."
Her voice cracked. "What if something's already happened?"
James didn't answer.
Because he didn't want to lie.
By sunset, exhaustion had crept into their bones.
Sandra sat on the edge of a boda stage near Jinja Road, her hands folded in her lap, her face pale from worry. Her eyes stung, but still no tears came.
James sat beside her, equally quiet.
The street around them was alive—boda riders shouting for passengers, hawkers selling boiled maize, school children walking home in uniform.
But for the two of them, the world had narrowed to a single question:
Where was Junior?
Sandra finally broke the silence.
"I used to carry him on my back," she said softly.
James turned to her, listening.
"He was always sick, even when he was little. Mama would go to the clinic and leave me in the kitchen. I'd finish washing the plates, then sneak out with him strapped to my back."
She smiled bitterly.
"He used to say I had superhero strength. That I could fly if I wanted."
James said nothing.
Sandra looked at her hands.
"But I couldn't even keep him safe."
"You were just a girl."
"I was everything," she replied. "Big sister. Second mother. First shield. I've always been all things to him."
Her voice cracked again.
"But I wasn't there when he needed me most."
James reached into his jacket pocket.
Pulled out a handkerchief.
Offered it to her.
She didn't take it.
Instead, she looked at him.
Eyes raw. Honest.
"Do you ever feel like… the people you love always end up leaving?"
He nodded.
"Or dying."
Sandra flinched.
James looked away.
"My parents weren't who people think they were. They were smart. Powerful. Respected. But not kind. Not to each other. Not to me."
Sandra listened quietly.
James continued.
"They fought with words. Not fists. But sometimes… words can cut deeper. My brother left when I was fifteen. I never heard from him again. My father died a year later. My mother followed soon after."
"I'm sorry."
"I'm not," James said. "I stopped feeling sorry a long time ago. I built a wall instead. And I climbed to the top of it."
Sandra tilted her head.
"Is that where you live now? On top of the wall?"
He turned to her, eyes soft for once.
"I think I stepped down the day I met you in that elevator."
Silence.
Long.
Full.
Then Sandra reached for the handkerchief.
Wiped her face.
"Maybe we both need to burn those walls down."
He didn't reply.
But he didn't look away.
The call came an hour later.
James answered immediately.
A man's voice came through, slightly crackly but clear.
"I think I found your boy."
Sandra jumped to her feet before the call even ended.
"Where is he?"
The man gave an address near Jinja Park.
"He was sleeping on a bench. Said he was looking for his sister. I gave him bread and soda. He's quiet. But okay."
Sandra's legs gave out and she fell to her knees on the concrete.
James caught her before she hit the ground.
Tears finally came.
Real ones.
Silent and shaking.
They rushed.
No traffic felt fast enough.
Every red light was a punishment.
By the time they reached the small local shop near Jinja Park, the sky had already turned soft purple.
A boy sat on the edge of the cement platform.
Thin.
Dusty.
Clutching a small backpack to his chest.
Sandra leapt out of the car before it even stopped.
"Junior!"
He turned.
His eyes widened.
And then—he ran.
Straight into her arms.
They fell to the ground together, crying, laughing, holding each other so tightly it hurt.
"Mummy said you were gone," Junior whispered into her neck.
"I'm here," she whispered back. "I'm here, baby."
James stood nearby, his hands in his pockets.
His throat thick.
Watching.
The old man who had found Junior came forward.
James shook his hand.
"Thank you."
"No need," the man said. "The boy kept showing people a drawing. Said his sister gave it to him."
James looked at the sketch.
A kite, flying over a hill.
Sandra and Junior stayed on the ground a while longer, rocking side by side.
Eventually, they walked back to the car.
Together.
As one.
---
That night, back at Sandra's house, James didn't leave.
He stayed.
Not in the bedroom.
Not on the sofa.
But on the small verandah outside the door.
Looking at the stars.
Sandra brought him tea.
She sat beside him.
They didn't speak for a while.
Then, slowly, the words came.
"I hated you," Sandra said, quietly.
James didn't flinch.
He nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the stars.
"I hated myself too," he replied.
She took a sip of the tea, then placed the mug beside her feet.
"I hated that you didn't say anything. That you just stood there while everything crumbled."
"I was frozen."
"By fear?"
"No. By habit."
She turned to him. "Habit?"
He met her eyes.
"I've lived so long pretending nothing touches me. It's a habit now. To shut down. To observe instead of act. To protect myself."
Sandra wrapped her arms around her knees.
"You always seem so in control."
"I'm not."
There was a silence between them.
Not sharp.
Just… tired.
Exposed.
Then she asked the question she'd been carrying for too long.
"Why me, James?"
He looked at her.
Really looked.
"Because you remind me that I'm still human."
Sandra let out a soft, broken laugh.
"That's not love."
"No," he said. "But maybe it's the beginning."
They sat like that for a long while.
Two people who had built entire lives around silence.
But now… they were learning to speak.
James leaned slightly closer.
His shoulder brushed hers.
Sandra didn't move away.
The air thickened.
Quiet. Tender. Fragile.
Then, James whispered, "You scare me."
She blinked. "Why?"
"Because you make me want things I told myself I didn't need."
Sandra's breath caught.
And in that moment—everything felt suspended.
The pain.
The past.
The questions.
Just two people.
On a verandah.
Under stars.
He leaned in slowly.
She closed her eyes.
But before their lips could meet—
Her phone buzzed.
She jumped.
James pulled back.
Her breath was shaky as she picked it up.
Unknown number.
She hesitated.
Then answered.
A voice spoke softly.
"I told you before… your story isn't done."
She froze.
"Who is this?"
The voice didn't answer.
Just sent something.
A photo.
She opened it.
And gasped.
James looked over.
"What is it?"
Her hands trembled.
She turned the screen.
It was Victor.
Shaking hands with her father.
Smiling.