The Silent Cloud

Dawn light spilled across the Lake Nyos Research Station's windows. The prefab metal creaked in the morning cold. Amara sat at her desk, motionless.

The seismograph scratched its endless rhythm. Data scrolling onto paper nobody had read. The amber sensors blinked their warnings into empty air.

She laid the three-week-old gas readings beside yesterday's death toll report. Her fingers traced the columns. The numbers aligned perfectly—every spike, every anomaly, every warning she'd dismissed.

Instrument error, she'd written in her notes.

Calibration needed.

1,700 people.

Her father's photograph sat beside the oscilloscope. Weathered face staring at her across an ocean and a doctorate. He'd sold land for her Cambridge education—red soil his grandfather had farmed, traded for books and tuition.

"You will honor us," he'd said.

She pressed her palms against the desk. The metal was cold. Her Cambridge models had predicted this exact pattern—limnic eruptions preceded by dissolved gas saturation. She'd published papers on it. Presented at conferences.

And she'd looked at the data three weeks ago and chosen not to see.

The readings matched. Every spike she'd dismissed as error fell exactly where her own formulas said death would follow. The margin wasn't even close—it was precise.

She adjusted her glasses. Her hands trembled against the frames.

The oscilloscope beside her father's photograph still showed yesterday's catastrophic release. The magnitude. The sudden pressure drop. Lake Nyos exhaling carbon dioxide in a cloud that rolled downhill while people slept.

No screaming. No time to run. Just sleep that didn't end.

She picked up her pen. Tapped it against the desk. One-two-three. One-two-three. The rhythm she couldn't stop when thoughts pressed too hard.

Her dissertation abstract was pinned above the workstation: *Predictive Models for Limnic Eruption Events in Volcanic Crater Lakes.* She'd been so proud writing it. First in her family to earn a doctorate. First to publish in *Geophysical Research Letters.*

First to let 1,700 people die because perfection mattered more than precaution.

She straightened the papers. The old reflex. Appearance of control when control had shattered. The gas readings aligned with the death reports, and the space between them measured exactly three weeks.

Three weeks she'd spent collecting more data. Calibrating instruments. Waiting for certainty.

Outside, Lake Nyos sat tranquil in the crater below. Deceptively calm water. Invisible death dissolved beneath the surface. She'd arrived eager to study this unique system—academic validation, international recognition, her name on research that mattered.

Her name on research that killed.

Boots echoed on the metal stairs outside. Heavy steps. Purposeful.

Amara's pen tapped faster. One-two-three. One-two-three-four. Her rhythm breaking.

She quickly straightened the papers again. Smoothed her lab coat. Tried to slow her breathing.

The footsteps stopped at the door.