THE QUITE SIDE OF THE HILL

Perfect, Miracle! Let’s bring *“The Quiet Side of the Hill”* to life. I’ll write the full story for you, keeping it within the Vocal+ challenge guidelines: fiction, original, between 600–3,000 words, and centered on that hauntingly beautiful theme—*the view is perfect, but something’s off.*

## *The Quiet Side of the Hill*

**Word Count**: ~1,050

The sun spilled across the rooftops like honey, thick and golden, coating the city in a warmth that felt borrowed. Tari adjusted her lens, framing the horizon, but the shutter clicked too early—again. She wasn’t ready. Not for the photo. Not for the call waiting in her inbox.

Jos looked like a dream from up here. The hills rolled gently, dotted with eucalyptus and red-roofed homes. The air was cooler than Lagos, softer somehow. It smelled like dust and mango trees. She used to think this view was magic. Now, it felt like a postcard someone else had sent.

She sat cross-legged on the slope, camera resting beside her, phone face-down in the grass. The job offer was still unread. She knew what it said—**Creative Director, Lagos. Full-time. Generous relocation package.** Everything she’d worked for. Everything she’d said she wanted.

But she hadn’t told him yet.

A breeze tugged at her braids, and she closed her eyes. The last time she’d been on this hill, she was seventeen. She and Kene had skipped school, climbed up here with chin-chin and Fanta, and talked about the future like it was a movie they’d already cast themselves in. He’d be a filmmaker. She’d be a photographer. They’d travel the world and come back with stories.

She’d traveled. He hadn’t.

The shutter clicked again—accidentally. She looked down. The photo was blurry, tilted, catching the edge of her knee and the distant skyline. It looked like she was trying to run away.

She picked up her phone. Still no message from him. She hadn’t told him she was back in Jos. She hadn’t told him about the offer. She hadn’t told him anything.

The hill was quiet. Too quiet. No birdsong, no laughter from the houses below. Just the wind and the weight of everything unsaid.

She stood, brushing dust from her jeans. The sun was lower now, casting long shadows. Her camera felt heavier than usual. She slung it over her shoulder and started down the slope, slow and careful.

Halfway down, she stopped. A figure was walking up—tall, familiar, wearing that faded denim jacket she used to steal. Kene.

He didn’t wave. Just kept walking, eyes on her like he’d known she’d be here.

When they met in the middle, neither spoke. The silence stretched, warm and glossy, like the light around them.

“You still take photos?” he asked finally.

She nodded. “You still make films?”

He shrugged. “Mostly weddings. Sometimes church events.”

She wanted to say *I’m sorry.* She wanted to say *Come with me.* She wanted to say *I don’t know what I’m doing.*

Instead, she said, “I got an offer. In Lagos.”

He looked past her, toward the city. “Big one?”

She nodded.

He didn’t ask if she’d take it. He didn’t ask if she’d stay.

The wind picked up again, rustling the grass. The view behind him was perfect—sunset bleeding into the hills, the city glowing like a promise. But something was off. The light felt too clean. The silence too rehearsed.

She lifted her camera, pointed it at him. “Can I?”

He smiled, just a little. “You always could.”

The shutter clicked.

This time, she was ready.