Insight of a Kenyan Girl

The photograph was back in the envelope. The ring, too.

Tilly sealed it again, folding it into the pocket of her coat like a threat tucked too close to the heart.

She didn’t want to see the rest. Not yet.

The club echoed behind her as she stepped out, locking the door with fingers that barely obeyed. The morning air slapped her awake. Loud. Cold. Real.

The world kept moving—oblivious to red envelopes, porcelain masks, and names scratched into forgotten history. Traffic buzzed. Street vendors called. A delivery truck blared its horn as it passed her by.

She blinked against the sun.

Time to work.

The publishing house was tucked between two art galleries, both too modern for their own good. The building was old, grand in a faded way—stone columns out front, chipped wooden floors inside, and the constant perfume of ink, dust, and ambition.

She arrived ten minutes late. Her heels echoed in the marble-floored foyer as she crossed past interns carrying stacks of manuscripts and the editor-in-chief’s dog trotting behind someone’s heels.

“Tilly,” called out Sara from reception, not unkindly. “Ms. Moreno’s looking for you.”

Of course she was.

Tilly slipped into the elevator, pressing the button for the third floor. As it hummed upward, she stared at her reflection in the mirrored walls.

She didn’t look scared. Not really.
She looked like someone who’d cracked open something ancient—and couldn’t close it again.

Her office was a corner cubicle with books stacked dangerously high, sticky notes blooming on her screen like confetti, and a whiteboard that still had the words “final proof – 28th” circled three times.

She tossed her bag onto the chair and barely had time to boot up her computer when Zara Moreno, her senior editor, leaned over the wall.

“You’re late,” she said, voice dry as toast.

“Had a morning,” Tilly replied.

Zara raised an eyebrow. “Good. Channel that chaos. I need you on a manuscript—now. Something’s off about it and I can’t put my finger on it. It’s a thriller. New writer. Reads too personal, almost like… a confession.”

Tilly blinked. “You think it’s based on something real?”

“Maybe. Or someone trying to scare themselves sober. Either way, it’s your kind of weird.”

Zara handed her a thick manuscript, its title page paperclipped and creased.

Tilly read the words and felt her stomach turn.

“The Chosen Shadows”

She looked up sharply.

Zara was already walking away.