Secrets Beneath the Surface

Zara sat cross-legged on the floor of her bedroom, her father's journal open in front of her. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and ink, a smell that instantly transported her back to lazy afternoons in her father's study. The room around her felt foreign—too pristine, too polished. It lacked the familiar chaos of her room in Lagos, where books, posters, and memories spilled from every corner. This space felt like a stranger's house, and yet it was now hers.

Her fingers traced the jagged handwriting on the journal's page, pausing on a phrase she had read a dozen times already: "Protect what's precious, even at great cost." Beneath it, a series of numbers—coordinates—gleamed like a hidden code. She had deciphered them earlier, with Mia's help, but the thought of what they led to made her chest tighten.

"Zara, dinner's ready!" her mother's voice called from downstairs.

"I'm not hungry!" she yelled back, her tone sharper than intended.

She heard a sigh of frustration but no footsteps approaching. Her mother had learned not to push, at least for now. Zara exhaled and leaned back against her bed, staring at the ceiling.

Why had her father never told her about any of this? The journal, the artifacts, the secret visitor—none of it made sense. Her life in Lagos had been full of noise and routine, the kind of predictable chaos she missed now. Her father had been strict, yes, but also steady. The kind of man who kept his promises. But now it felt like his entire life had been wrapped in lies.

The next day, Zara sat with Mia in the library during lunch. The hum of conversations filled the room, but Zara was too absorbed in the journal to notice.

"So, let me get this straight," Mia whispered, leaning closer. "You think your dad was… what? Some kind of treasure hunter?"

"Not exactly," Zara said, lowering her voice. "But he was involved in something. These coordinates—" she tapped the page "—lead to a storage facility. He marked it as 'secured.' Doesn't that sound suspicious?"

Mia's eyes lit up. "Totally! When are we going?"

"Who said we're going anywhere?" Zara shot back, but the slight smirk on her face betrayed her curiosity.

"Come on, Zara. You can't drop something like this and not follow up." Mia leaned in conspiratorially. "What if there's, like, a chest of gold or something? You could be sitting on a fortune."

"It's not about money," Zara muttered, closing the journal. "It's about understanding him. He… he always seemed so normal. But now I'm wondering if I even knew him at all."

That night, Zara sat alone at her desk, her laptop glowing in the dark. She had spent hours researching the coordinates and the storage facility they pointed to. It wasn't far—a thirty-minute drive, tops. But the thought of going there alone filled her with unease.

Suddenly, a faint knock sounded at her door.

"Come in," she called.

Her mother stepped in, holding a cup of tea. "I thought you might need this."

"Thanks," Zara mumbled, taking the cup but not meeting her mother's gaze.

Her mother lingered by the doorway. "You've been spending a lot of time in your room lately. Is everything okay?"

Zara hesitated. Part of her wanted to confide in her mother, to spill everything about the journal and the artifacts. But another part held back, unsure if she could trust her. After all, her mother had been the one keeping secrets, too—like the identity of the man who had visited the other day.

"I'm fine," Zara said finally, forcing a smile.

Her mother didn't look convinced, but she nodded and left without pressing further.

Later that night, Zara made her decision. She texted Mia: We're going tomorrow. Meet me at 10.

Her phone buzzed almost immediately with Mia's reply: Yesss! Adventure time!

Zara closed her eyes and took a deep breath. For the first time since her father's death, she felt a flicker of something other than sadness. It wasn't quite hope, but it was close enough.

Little did she know, tomorrow would unravel secrets she wasn't ready to face.

As Zara lay in bed, the journal still open on her desk, a shadow passed by her window. She didn't notice, but if she had, she would have seen a figure lingering just beyond the streetlamp, watching her house with an unsettling intensity.