The sharp pain of a headache wrapped around Imani's head like a snake; rain pelted her back, her arms, and her skin as she woke to her fingers pressed against cracked asphalt. Her brows furrowed as she pushed off the cool pavement. Her thick box braids weighed on her shoulders. The humidity was suffocating. It wasn't even supposed to rain today. 

A rusted iron gate creaked as the wind paddled it. The broken, cemented pathway where the ghost stood before she rushed at her like a guard dog. Though the little black girl with puff balls and sad, lonely eyes was nowhere to be found, Imani felt chills as if she were watching her from one of the many broken windows. 

Imani peered at the gothic, square-shaped building with graffiti and withered walls. This was the first time that she was starting to have doubts about coming back to the place she had known for ten years after her mother gave her to a place where she would receive the basic necessities she just couldn’t provide living on the streets. For a time, this place was home--Thornwood Group Home, and it was inviting her back, or at least that’s what she thought. Now, she wasn’t so sure. 

She rose to her feet, a determination bloomed within her chest. She stepped forward and caught the gate before it swung shut. She pushed it open and entered. She strode past tall, unkempt grass and strange weeds. 

Inside, Imani was met with a musty odor mixed with dust. She wandered through the corridors with peeling paint surrounding frames of venerated staff that were falling apart- some were hanging upside down. As her , memories of all the hell she gave the nurses, residential counselors, and earnest volunteers flooded back to her mind. 

A flicker of light snapped her back to the present. It was coming from the room ahead- the director’s office. She wondered if she should turn back. What if it was another ghost? Imani swallowed hard. She decided she would face it and opened the door. 

The crack of lightning seized her breath, but the crackle of fire welcomed her inside. It cast a warm shadow over the room. The back of the worn, leather desk chair faced Imani. 

"H-hello?" Imani's soft voice pierced the silence. 

A black woman with short black hair, shaved at the sides and perfectly arched brows wheeled around. She placed a hand to her chest and exhaled. "Shit you scared me." 

Imani released the breath she had been holding. "My bad, I didn't think anyone was in here," said Imani. She wondered what ghosts the woman had to go through to get in here. 

"I didn’t think anyone would come." The woman stood and extended a hand. "Hi, I'm Jasmine." 

Imani shook her hand and savored the softness of her palm. "Imani." She wondered why Jasmine was here, and then she noticed the camera hanging around her neck. 

"What's your draw here? Are you also on a photography project?" 

“A photography project?” 

"Yeah, I'm trying to put together a book that will document various stages of decay."

Imani eyed the tattoos illustrated on Jasmine's dark brown skin. She was hot, artistic, and butch-looking. Imani felt like she was in trouble. This woman looked like she had not called many people back the next night. It was wrong to judge, but she had seen this play out many times before. "Sounds cool. And no. I'm-" Why was Imani here? How could she explain that she felt she needed to face some ghosts of her own home without sounding like she needed more sessions of therapy? She fished around in her brain for the right words to say. "I just felt called to come- I grew up here." 

“Oh really? What was that like?” 

The curious glint in Jasmine's dark eyes burned down her usual caginess. "It was lonely," Imani began. “It's true what they say you could be surrounded by people and still feel so alone.” 

"I can definitely understand how that feels." Jasmine's eyes studied Imani. “Oh, you're soaked, here-” She offered the chair. Imani sat, and Jasmine pushed her closer to fire. 

Perfect strangers chatted away like old friends. Imani warmed up by the fire and Jasmine's company as she leaned against the desk. Something about her was inviting and understanding. Imani forgot about ghosts and old memories; they all melted away as the night carried forward. 

Imani rose to offer Jasmine a seat in the chair. Jasmine, who had transferred to the floor stood, and their shoulders brushed against one another. The rhythm of Imani's heart subdued the rain against the roof and the dance of the hearth’s fire. Imani was enthralled by a strong sense of longing and closed the distance. They kissed. 

At first, Imani’s fear of having made the first move dissolved when Jasmine kissed her back. When they pulled away, Jasmine asked, “You think we were meant to meet.” 

Jasmine threaded her fingers in Imani's hand. Imani chuckled. "Maybe you're the reason I felt called here."

The rain dwindled outside. Amid decay and stale memories, Imani found solace and connection. Suddenly, this wasn’t such a lonely place after all.