Yakabatanidzwa ruzha

A young woman in her early twenties stands by the window of her small London flat on a grey, rainy afternoon. In her hands, she holds an old handwritten letter, its pages worn from years of guilt. Her reflection blurs in the rain‑streak ingredient glass, as if the past is reaching into the present. Years earlier, as a child, she found her sister’s private letter and, in a moment of childish jealousy, told the adults she saw a young man attacking her near the fountain. Her face was serious, but