Seventy-three

Qhawelezizwe's POV

It had been two days since my mother and her loyal follower moved in with us—two days since Sibane last spoke to me. I found myself lying on the couch in our bedroom, staring at the ceiling, while Sibane remained in her silence, not uttering a word or leaving the room. She was on the floor, methodically making the bed as if she were in a trance. I couldn't take it anymore.

"Sibane… You haven't spoken to me in two days," I said, my voice strained. She didn't even glance at me, her body still, a wall of cold indifference. The silence between us stretched like an abyss, and if anything, she seemed oblivious to my pain.