The letter. The silence. The time she couldn’t account for.

Zion was already waiting in the courtyard, arms folded tight, chin tilted. Tobi slowed as she approached.

"What’s wrong?" she asked.

Zion gave her the kind of look that asked ten questions.

"I’ve been calling you since last night. Thought maybe your phone died—then I saw you. Still in the lecture hall. Just sitting there."

Tobi shifted her weight. "I must’ve dozed off."

"Babe, it’s not just dozing off," Zion said, her voice low. "You were wide awake. Or looked it. You no even blink when I call your name. I thought maybe you dey get one of your… episodes."

"I wasn’t."

"Then what happened?"

Tobi hesitated. "I don’t know."

Zion didn’t press, just let the silence stretch. She waits, Tobi says nothing.

"Sha, you forgot your hoodie," she said eventually. "It’s in your bag."

Back at the hostel, Tobi dug through her bag.

No letter.

Just the hoodie—damp. A faint smear of mud on the sleeve.

She reached for sleepwear. Opened her drawer.

Folded beneath her spare shorts: a note.

The same slanted handwriting.

One line:

Don’t ask Zion again.