Aisha laughs bitterly. “And you do?”

Juma leans forward, pulls off his taped headphones. “I’m still here. Every night. Pressing play on the same song. Hoping you’d walk back in.”

She hesitates. Then stands. Walks to the microphone. The beat drops again—Mbosso’s ghostly, romantic instrumental wrapping around her like a second skin.

“Your ex flew away,” Juma says quietly. “But he didn’t know how to land.”

Juma had noticed. He was just the sound guy back then. Now the studio was his—bought with loan money and stubbornness.

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