Outside the chapel, the compound felt brighter and more peaceful.
The large neem tree stood at the center of the yard, its branches spreading wide like protective arms.
Precious sat beneath it, reading quietly.
When she saw us approaching, she closed her book.
Her smile appeared slowly.
"David," she said softly.
I always admired the way she said my name — as if it carried a deeper meaning only she understood.
Her father gestured toward the wooden chairs nearby.
"Sit," he said.
We all took our seats beneath the shade.
For a moment no one spoke.
Then her father looked directly at me.
"Why are you here today?"
His voice was calm, but I could sense the seriousness behind the question.
I straightened my shirt.
"I came to collect some literature notes from Precious," I said.
She lowered her gaze slightly, her cheeks turning faintly red.
Her dimples appeared when she smiled.
And in my mind, I called her by the secret names I never spoke aloud:
My rose.
My star.
My precious world.
Her father leaned back slowly.
"Hmm," he murmured.
Then he began telling stories about his youth — school days, beach outings, music festivals, and the carefree life he once lived.
The stories felt surprisingly warm.
But beneath them I sensed something deeper.
He was studying me.
Trying to understand the man who stood near his daughter.