THE WOMAN SHE USED TO BE

Naledi stared at her husband.

For a moment, she wondered whether she had heard him correctly.

“Neither were you?”

Thabo stood near the dining table, his expression unreadable. He looked like a man who had spent years preparing for a conversation but had never imagined actually having it.

“What does that mean, Thabo?”

He avoided her eyes.

“Naledi, there are things about that night you don’t remember.”

“Then tell me.”

He exhaled slowly.

“You were involved in an accident.”

She frowned.

“What accident?”

“The night Zinhle disappeared.”

Naledi shook her head.

“No. That’s impossible. I would remember being in an accident.”

“You were unconscious for several days.”

She felt something tighten in her chest.

“Where?”

“At a private hospital.”

“And why have I never heard about this?”

“You were confused when you woke up. The doctors said you had experienced trauma. There were things you couldn’t remember.”

Naledi stared at him.

Seven years.

Seven years of birthdays, family gatherings, sleepless nights and tears over a sister she believed was dead.

And throughout all of it, Thabo had known that a part of her own life was missing.

“You watched me mourn my sister,” she whispered. “You watched me suffer, knowing there were things I didn’t know.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“Stop saying that!”

Her voice broke.

“Everybody keeps telling me they’re protecting me. From what? The truth?”

Thabo moved closer, but she stepped away.

“Don’t.”

He stopped.

“Was Zinhle with me that night?”

He said nothing.

“Thabo, was she?”

“I don’t know everything that happened.”

Naledi let out a bitter laugh.

“You don’t know? You’re my husband. You were there. You know something.”

Thabo looked towards the bedroom.

“I think we should talk about this another time.”

“No. We are talking now.”

But he had already turned away.

Naledi watched him disappear down the passage.

For the first time in their marriage, she realised she no longer knew whether the man she shared a home with was someone she could trust.

⸻

Later that evening, Naledi sat alone in the living room.

The house was unusually quiet. She could hear the ticking of the wall clock and the occasional sound of a vehicle passing outside.

She closed her eyes, trying to remember the night Thabo had mentioned.

Nothing.

Then, suddenly, a strange image flashed through her mind.

A hospital corridor.

Bright lights.

The smell of medicine.

A woman’s voice calling her name.

“Naledi… please wake up.”

She opened her eyes.

Her breathing had become shallow.

She pressed her fingers against her temples, desperately trying to hold on to the memory.

There had been another sound.

Someone crying.

And then a voice she recognised.

Zinhle.

Naledi stood up so quickly that her phone fell from her lap.

“Zinhle?”

The name escaped her lips before she could stop herself.

She looked around the empty room.

For seven years, she had dreamt about her sister. Sometimes she saw her smiling. Sometimes she saw her walking away without turning back.

But this was different.

For the first time, the memory felt real.

Her phone vibrated.

An unknown number.

UNKNOWN: You need to stop asking Thabo about that night.

Naledi stared at the message.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard.

NALEDI: Who is this?

The reply came almost immediately.

UNKNOWN: Someone who knows what happened at the hospital.

Her heart began to pound.

NALEDI: Which hospital?

There was a short pause.

Then another message appeared.

UNKNOWN: You were not the only patient who disappeared from that hospital.

Naledi read the words twice.

Before she could respond, an image arrived.

It was an old photograph.

She opened it.

Her entire body went cold.

The photograph showed a hospital room. A woman lay in a bed, her face thinner than Naledi remembered, with a bandage across her forehead.

It was her.

She zoomed in.

Beside the bed stood Zinhle.

Her sister.

Alive.

Naledi brought a trembling hand to her mouth.

She looked younger, but there was no mistaking that face. Zinhle was holding her hand, smiling faintly at whoever had taken the photograph.

Naledi’s eyes moved towards the bottom of the image.

There was a date.

Three days after Zinhle had supposedly died.

“No…” she whispered.

She enlarged the photograph again.

If Zinhle had been alive three days after her supposed death, then what exactly had happened seven years ago?

Whose funeral had they attended?

Whose death had they mourned?

Her phone vibrated again.

UNKNOWN: Look at the background.

Naledi zoomed in.

At first, she saw nothing unusual.

Then she noticed a figure standing near the curtains.

A woman wearing a dark coat.

Her face was partially visible.

Naledi recognised her immediately.

Detective Maseko.

She dropped the phone onto the sofa.

Why had he been at the hospital?

Why had he never mentioned seeing Zinhle?

And why had he been investigating a case he apparently knew much more about than he had admitted?

Before she could gather her thoughts, another message arrived.

UNKNOWN: Ask Detective Maseko why he signed the hospital visitor register that night.

Naledi’s stomach tightened.

She picked up her phone and stared at the photograph again.

There was something else.

A reflection in the glass cabinet behind the hospital bed.

Someone else had been taking the photograph.

Someone whose face was not visible.

She zoomed in, but the image was too blurred to make out anything more.

Then she heard footsteps behind her.

“Who sent you that?”

Naledi turned.

Thabo stood at the entrance of the living room.

His eyes were fixed on her phone.

She looked at him, then back at the photograph.

“Where did you say I was taken after the accident?”

He didn’t answer.

“Thabo, look at this.”

She held out the phone.

He didn’t move.

For several seconds, he simply stared at the photograph.

Then the colour drained from his face.

“Where did you get that?”

“Someone sent it to me.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. But I think you do.”

Thabo slowly sat down.

Naledi watched him carefully.

“Why is Zinhle standing beside my hospital bed three days after her funeral?”

He closed his eyes.

“Thabo?”

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible.

“You shouldn’t have received that photograph.”

“Why?”

He looked at her.

“Because Zinhle was never supposed to be found.”

Naledi felt the blood drain from her face.

“Found?”

Thabo stood up and walked towards the window.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then he turned back to her.

“There is something else you need to know about your sister.”

“What?”

He swallowed.

“The last person who saw Zinhle alive was not me.”

Naledi stared at him.

“Then who was it?”

Thabo looked directly into her eyes.

“You, Naledi.”