{"id":18975,"date":"2026-01-23T13:50:08","date_gmt":"2026-01-23T13:50:08","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/kezpres.xyz\/novelreading\/?p=18975"},"modified":"2026-01-23T13:50:08","modified_gmt":"2026-01-23T13:50:08","slug":"void-novel-chapter-1","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/kezpres.xyz\/novelreading\/void-novel-chapter-1\/","title":{"rendered":"VOID Novel Chapter 1"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n
Prologue<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n
The Zimbabwean flag drapes the coffin like a final salute. On top, there is a beret, a belt, an army badge; Soldiers in camouflage stand rigid, boots pressed into the red earth of Batanani village, in Plumtree. A three-gun salute cracks the air. Smoke curls. The scent of gunpowder lingers, sharp, metallic, final.<\/div>\n
Villagers ululate. Not in sorrow, but in celebration. A hero has fallen. In a place like this, such a burial is rare, it\u2019s a spectacle of honour.<\/div>\n
But for Linda, it is not a spectacle. It is annihilation. She collapses with a shriek that rips through the gathered crowd, a raw, soul-shattering scream, a sound of a mother losing her firstborn. Two women grip her arms, lowering her to the ground as she wails, calling her son\u2019s name over and over; \u201cButholezwe! Butho!\u201d<\/div>\n
The singers fall silent. Even the wind seems to hold its breath. Her cries are the only voice the grave hears.<\/div>\n
To the soldiers, this is routine, a brother laid to rest, another name added to the roll. But to Linda, this is her son. Her first fruit. The boy who once clung to her skirts, now sealed in wood in front of her.<\/div>\n
Beside her, Siphokazi sits heavily pregnant, a thin blanket draped over her shoulders. She nudges the woman supporting her.<\/div>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s hot,\u201d she whispers, voice edged with irritation. \u201cCan\u2019t you take this off?\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cNot now,\u201d the woman murmurs. \u201cNot until they start filling the grave.\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cThen tell them to hurry up. I\u2019m pregnant. I\u2019m not supposed to be burning like this.\u201d<\/div>\n
The woman presses her lips together and looks away.<\/div>\n
Across the grave, where men stand in stiff rows, Velaphi bites his lower lip until it bleeds. His wife\u2019s screams tear through him. He aches to go to heart o hold her, to sob with her, but his shoulders stay squared, his head bowed. A man does not cry. That\u2019s what his father taught him. So, he stands, hollowed out, eyes red-rimmed and glassy, his heart bleeding in silence.<\/div>\n
When Linda\u2019s cries finally subside, the pastor steps forward.<\/div>\n
\u201cJob 1 : 21 says \u2018Naked I came from my mother\u2019s womb, ad naked I shall return there. The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away: blessed be the name of the Lord.\u2019 We are gathered here today in loving memory of one who was brave enough to give his life, his all, so that those he loved might remain safe and free. Go well, Butholezwe Ndlovu. You will never be forgotten.\u201d<\/div>\n
He gestures to the family. \u201cNow, if there are final words\u2026 or rituals\u2026 you may perform them.\u201d<\/div>\n
As Siphokazi is helped to the grave\u2019s edge, the men turn as one, facing away. Two women help lower Siphokazi onto the dirt, sitting on her plain butt. She drags soil toward the hole three times with her but then rises without a word.<\/div>\n
Afterwards, the pastor holds a shovel full of soil. Velaphi goes first. He scoops earth with his left hand, lets it fall in a slow, trembling shower onto the coffin. He murmurs something too low to hear. Stares. Then turns and walks back, shoulders slumped like a man carrying the sky.<\/div>\n
Linda steps forward next. Tears, snot, sweat all mix on her chin as she flings soil into the grave.<\/div>\n
\u201cUya kundisiya mukadzi wako a le nhumbu le\u2026\u201d Her voice breaks. \u201cYou couldn\u2019t even fight? You welcomed death with open arms, leaving me with your wife and an unborn child?\u201d She chokes. \u201cWhat will I tell this baby? Couldn\u2019t you wait? Just long enough to hold him? What kind of coward were you, son?\u201d Her voice rises, sharp with betrayal. \u201cI\u2019ll never forgive you. Rest in peace but may you always look back and see what you left behind. You broke my heart.\u201d<\/div>\n
She stumbles back to her place.<\/div>\n
Siphokazi steps up. With her left hand, nails painted, steady she flicks a handful of soil into the grave.<\/div>\n
\u201cGoodbye, baby,\u201d she says, voice light, almost singsong. \u201cRest in peace. I\u2019ll always love you from the grave.\u201d She blows two exaggerated kisses. \u201cMncwa mncwaaa.\u201d<\/div>\n
A murmur ripples through the crowd. Disapproval. Shock.<\/div>\n
Siphokazi rolls her eyes, shrugs off the women holding her arms, and crosses her arms over her swollen belly, standing front and centre as if posing for a photograph.<\/div>\n
As the first shovelful of earth hits the coffin, Linda crumples. Grief floods her veins. She faints. Church women rush to lift her.<\/div>\n
\u201cLimkhiphe ipanty atshayelwe ngumoya (remove her underwear so she gets some fresh air)!\u201d Siphokazi calls after them, loud enough for all to hear.<\/div>\n
Giggles. Gasps. Whispers. But Siphokazi just smooths her hair and looks away, as if she hasn\u2019t said anything wrong at all.<\/div>\n
Later, after flowers are laid and hands are washed in aloe-infused water at the gate, mourners drift toward the homestead for food.<\/div>\n
Inside the house where Butholezwe\u2019s coffin lay all night, Linda sits on a thin mattress against the wall, her body heavy with absence. She\u2019s seen other mothers bury children but never imagined she\u2019d join their ranks. Never thought this pain would knock on her door.<\/div>\n
And now, a pregnant widow, a five-year-old granddaughter. No income. No husband. Just her, left holding the pieces.<\/div>\n
\u201cWhere is Siphokazi?\u201d she asks as people trickle in from the graveside.<\/div>\n
\u201cShe\u2019s in the army car,\u201d says Elihle, shifting her niece on her hip. \u201cTalking to the soldiers.\u201d She gently places the child down. \u201cGo to your grandmother.\u201d<\/div>\n
Linda blinks back fresh tears. Forces a smile.<\/div>\n
\u201cCome, baby girl. Buya kukubo. (Come to your grandmother).\u201d<\/div>\n
Little Sinenhlanhla hesitates, then walks slowly into her grandmother\u2019s open arms. Linda pats her lap. The child climbs up. And though the girl doesn\u2019t cry, Linda rocks her back and forth, back and forth her eyes fixed on the child\u2019s face. The same eyes. The same smile and big forehead. The ghost of her son, alive in this small body.<\/div>\n
She wonders what she will tell her when she asks about her father.<\/div>\n
\u201cLihle,\u201d Linda says softly, \u201cgo check on your brother\u2019s wife please.\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cShe\u2019s fine, Mom. I don\u2019t want to interrupt their private conversation.\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cThose are your brother\u2019s comrades. They\u2019re surely offering condolences.\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cCondolences?\u201d Lihle scoffs. \u201cDidn\u2019t look like condolences to me. Sipho doesn\u2019t need any condolences. Girl is laughing and___\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cLihle!\u201d Linda snaps. \u201cNot now. Not when my son\u2019s body hasn\u2019t even begun to rot.\u201d<\/div>\n
Lihle leaves without another word.<\/div>\n
Minutes later, Siphokazi strides in carrying a six-pack of Hunter\u2019s Dry. She drops onto the floor, claps twice, and announces to the room:<\/div>\n
\u201cNgaze ngaba ngumfelokazi ngimncane bo. (I\u2019m a widow now and look how young I am).\u201d<\/div>\n
Silence. Then stares. At the beer. At her. At the sheer audacity of her calm.<\/div>\n
\u201cAre you allowed to drink in your condition?\u201d a woman finally asks.<\/div>\n
\u201cAfter Tears,\u201d Siphokazi says, popping a can open. \u201cIt\u2019s a thing. You celebrate the dead because they\u2019re gone and never coming back. Ever.\u201d She downs half the can in one gulp, sighs with satisfaction. \u201cBesides, it\u2019s just cider. Won\u2019t hurt the baby.\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cI\u2019ve never heard of \u2018After Tears,\u2019 here in the village,\u201d the woman says, frowning.<\/div>\n
\u201cHayi ke!\u201d Siphokazi laughs. \u201cThen you\u2019re missing out.\u201d<\/div>\n
She wipes her mouth. \u201cI\u2019m hoping the soldiers give me a lift back to Bulawayo.\u201d<\/div>\n
Linda\u2019s eyes widen. \u201cToday? You\u2019re leaving today?\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cYes, Mom. It\u2019s hot here. I\u2019m pregnant. Staring at his grave won\u2019t bring him back and it might mess with my peace. My mom said I can stay with her while I soothe my heart.\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cYour mother agreed?\u201d Linda\u2019s voice trembles. \u201cShe lost a son-in-law! She should be here, mourning with us! Is this how you do things in your culture?\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cWe don\u2019t do culture,\u201d Siphokazi says calmly, taking another sip. \u201cWe\u2019re modern. Born and bred in Bulawayo.\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cModern or not, you\u2019re married here and you are now of our culture. And here, we mourn. For two days, you sit. We cleanse you. We honour him. You don\u2019t just walk away.\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cCleansing?\u201d Siphokazi wrinkles her nose. \u201cLike that dirt ritual at the grave? No thanks. My butt hole is full of soil as we speak. I need to bath.\u201d<\/div>\n
The room freezes. Linda closes her eyes. Breathes. Opens them.<\/div>\n
\u201cFine. Go. If that\u2019s what you need.\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cNo, Linda!\u201d an elder protests. \u201cShe can\u2019t leave! What will people say? She must stay at least a week. People are still coming to comfort her; they must find her here.\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cI can\u2019t force her,\u201d Linda says quietly. \u201cWe mourn differently. Maybe she heals better far from this place. I won\u2019t chain her grief to mine.\u201d She stands. \u201cI\u2019ll tell my husband you\u2019re leaving.\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cThank you,\u201d Siphokazi says, not looking up. \u201cBecause even if I stay, he\u2019s not waking up. He\u2019s dead. Life goes on. My life can\u2019t stop just because Butho did.\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cWe know he\u2019s not coming back,\u201d Linda snaps, voice cracking. \u201cBut you don\u2019t have to rub salt in my wound. Go. But you\u2019re leaving my grandchild behind.\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cI\u2019m taking Nhlanhla,\u201d Siphokazi says flatly. \u201cShe needs fresh air. Not this graveyard atmosphere. It\u2019s not healthy for her.\u201d<\/div>\n
Linda raises her hands in mock surrender.<\/div>\n
\u201cYou know what? Do what you want, Siphokazi. Take the child. Take the grave. Take everything. Just let me mourn my son in peace.\u201d<\/div>\n
Siphokazi doesn\u2019t answer. She finishes her can, crushes it in her fist, and says, \u201cDid you see the boys that the barracks released though? The one who was doing the gun salute, Dzammn! Boy is fire! I wouldn\u2019t mind being touched by those hands honestly.\u201d<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n
Linda walks out in tears and heads to her bedroom. She shuts the door behind her and picks up a framed photo of Butholezwe. She stares at it and whispers, \u201cI don\u2019t have the strength to fight at the moment. But if I let your kids go, promise me you will bring the back one day.\u201d<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n
Twenty years later\u2026<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n
CHAPTER ONE<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n
SINENHLANHLA<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n
The heat is unbearable. I\u2019ve been slumped in this chair for hours, squinting at the computer screen trying to locate the missing five rand. Being a bookkeeper in a rural school means you account for every cent or else you will get accused of stealing fifty cents and building a two- bedroom house with it.<\/div>\n
I\u2019ve worked here in Kezi high school for five years. I don\u2019t have diploma or certificate. Just numbers, a keyboard and the fact that I don\u2019t complain when the headmaster, Mr Khabo \u2018borrows\u2019 petty cash and forgets to log it.<\/div>\n
\u201cNhlanhla!\u201d His voice booms from down the hall.<\/div>\n
I roll my eyes. I told him I will update him when the books have balanced. I\u2019m still tracking the missing five rands and I already know who took it.<\/div>\n
\u201cNhlanhla!\u201d Louder this time.<\/div>\n
\u201cSir?\u201d I call back, still typing.<\/div>\n
\u201cCome here, please.\u201d<\/div>\n
I shut my eyes for five seconds and take a deep breath before heading to his office, two doors down.<\/div>\n
Chimney, his real name is Gilbert, is sitting in front of the headmaster, drenched in sweat like he just sprinted from the other side of the village. We call him Chimney because the man\u2019s always puffing that cigarette, even in the middle of the night. He is our neighbour.<\/div>\n
My heart skips a bit. Last week, with the bad influence of my young sister Kayise, we poisoned his goats. They kept eating our vegetables. We fed them sorghum, then water. Four died of constipation. He gave us the meat unaware we had a hand in their death. I hope he is not here because of the goats, I will deny knowing what a goat is.<\/div>\n
I sit beside him, eyes on the floor. \u201cHello,\u201d I mutter, waving half-heartedly. Then to Mr Khabo, \u201cI\u2019m not done with the books yet. As soon as I\u2014\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s not why I called you,\u201d he cuts in. \u201cGilbert is here to see you.\u201d<\/div>\n
My heart screeches to a halt. I\u2019m now convinced it\u2019s about the goats.<\/div>\n
But then Chimney speaks, \u201cYour house, Sne\u2026 it\u2019s burning.\u201d<\/div>\n
I blink. \u201cWhich house?\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cYours. The one at the corner.\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cNo.\u201d The word slips out like a reflex.<\/div>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/div>\n
My knees don\u2019t just weaken, they vanish. The air leaves my chest. I can\u2019t breathe or speak. Tears spill before I even understand why. For a moment, I\u2019m nailed to the chair, mouth open, voice gone.<\/div>\n
When it finally returns, it\u2019s thin, like I\u2019m in a deep hole. \u201cDid\u2026 did anyone put it out?\u201d<\/div>\n
He shakes his head. \u201cFlames took it fast.\u201d<\/div>\n
I turn to Mr. Khabo like he holds answers. He just sighs. \u201cMaybe you should go see for yourself.\u201d<\/div>\n
I nod and rise from the chair. \u201cLet\u2019s go.\u201d<\/div>\n
As we reach the door, Mr. Khabo calls me back. \u201cWait take someone with you. For support.\u201d<\/div>\n
Firefighters would\u2019ve been better, I think bitterly. But this is Kezi rural. We don\u2019t have fire trucks. We have neighbours and buckets.<\/div>\n
\u201cWho?\u201d I ask, already knowing. Only two people here actually care about me, Gift and Olay.<\/div>\n
He heads to the staffroom and returns moments later with them in tow.<\/div>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\u201d Gift asks, eyes scanning my face.<\/div>\n
I jerk my chin toward Chimney. \u201cAsk him.\u201d<\/div>\n
Instead of explaining what really happened, Chimney says, \u201cYou\u2019ll find me at home,\u201d and walks off as if saying he is already done with his duty. I grab my handbag, lock my office and we set off. I\u2019ve walked this path twice a day since I was a student at Kezi High. Today, for the first time, the one kilometre feels endless.<\/div>\n
\u201cWhat started it?\u201d Olay asks, striding ahead.<\/div>\n
\u201cKids playing with matches probably,\u201d Gift guesses.<\/div>\n
I say nothing. My mind\u2019s already at the wreckage. Did the roof collapse? Are the walls still standing? What about my O\u2019 level certificates? The bed I saved three months\u2019 salary for?<\/div>\n
\u201cNhlanhla, what do you think started the fire,\u201d Olay presses.<\/div>\n
\u201cHow would I know?\u201d My voice snaps sharper than I mean it to. I soften instantly. \u201cI was at work. Just like you.\u201d<\/div>\n
They exchange a look. I don\u2019t care. I appreciate them coming because unlike most teachers here who sneer at me for being \u2018just\u2019 a bookkeeper hired by the school committee, not the ministry, these two never make me feel small. Unfortunately, right now, I don\u2019t want chatter. I just want silence.<\/div>\n
Smoke stains the sky. Thick and dark. A few people are gathered under the tree in front of our yard. They are not even having buckets of water. I wonder if they ever tried to take out the fire. by the look of things they just came here and enjoyed watching a house burn. As we approach, the roof caves in with a groan, metal buckling, glass popping like firecrackers.<\/div>\n
It\u2019s not just a house burning. It\u2019s my life.<\/div>\n
\u201cDid anyone get anything out?\u201d I ask, voice hollow.<\/div>\n
Chimney lights a cigarette. \u201cIt was too late. I saw smoke coming out, by the time I came here, the whole house was engulfed. Did you leave any burning candle this morning?\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cNo candles were lit this morning,\u201d I say quickly. \u201cWe don\u2019t even have candles.\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cWhere\u2019s Kayise?\u201d<\/div>\n
I shrug. \u201cOut doing someone\u2019s hair, probably.\u201d<\/div>\n
I\u2019m in disbelief. I finished paying the builders last week. Now it\u2019s all gone. I drag myself into the yard. Gift and Olay flank me like guards. The heat hits my face, stinging my eyes, but I don\u2019t move.<\/div>\n
\u201cThis is bad,\u201d Gift says quietly. \u201cI\u2019m sorry, Nhlanhla but there\u2019s nothing left to save.\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cHow do I start over?\u201d My voice cracks. \u201cYears of saving. All gone in ten minutes.\u201d<\/div>\n
Olay puts a hand on my shoulder. \u201cYou\u2019ll be okay.\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cOkay how? Where do I sleep tonight? What do I wear tomorrow?\u201d<\/div>\n
He doesn\u2019t answer. Just shrugs. Because he knows, there is no answer. I stand frozen, wrapped in a dozen of emotions that paralyse me. I can\u2019t move or speak. I still feel like a dream, that someone will wake me up and end it all.<\/div>\n
A wail comes from the back gate startling me. It\u2019s Kayise. She enters the kitchen and comes out with a bucket, screaming, \u201cHelp us! Please\u2014put out the fire!\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cKayise, stop!\u201d Gift shouts.<\/div>\n
She doesn\u2019t listen. She charges toward the flames. Gift grabs her before she reaches the house.<\/div>\n
\u201cLet me go! My money\u2019s in there! Under the mattress!\u201d she shrieks, thrashing.<\/div>\n
\u201cMoney isn\u2019t worth your life!\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cTen thousand rands is!\u201d<\/div>\n
I freeze. \u201cTen thousand?\u201d<\/div>\n
She glares at me, breathless. \u201cI\u2019ve been saving since January.\u201d<\/div>\n
All this time while I patched shoes and couldn\u2019t buy myself lunch like other kids, she had 10K hidden?<\/div>\n
Rage floods me, hot and clean. \u201cYou watched me struggle while you hoarded money under your mattress. You live off me, Kayise and you never said a word about savings.\u201d<\/div>\n
She sobs. \u201cIt was my money!\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cYour money?\u201d I laugh dryly as my temper simmers. \u201cFine. Go ahead. Run in. Burn with it. Maybe your fat will drip and we can finally have a smell of braai in the air.\u201d<\/div>\n
Gift shoots me a warning look. But when Kayise keeps fighting, he lets her go. She takes two steps, and turns. I cross my arms as anger consumes me. I understand her pain but her sheer audacity of staying with me pretending to be broke while she had a five figure under the mattress pisses me off. A part of me is happy the money went up in flames. Let her be broke like me. Saves her right for hiding money while I\u2019m taking care of her like her parent. If she wants to burn like her money, she can go I don\u2019t care.<\/div>\n<\/div>\n
\n
She drops the bucket and sinks to her knees. She cries, not dramatically this time but with the quiet devastation. Tears fall unrestrained.<\/div>\n
Olay pulls me into a hug. \u201cWe have to go, Nhlanhla.\u201d<\/div>\n
I nod. But I can\u2019t feel anything. It\u2019s like I\u2019m watching this happen to someone else. When they leave, I walk over to Kayise. My little sister. Orphaned like me. Broken like me. I kneel and wrap my arms around her. The ground is scorching but I don\u2019t feel it. I allow myself to feel her pain and I feel mine as well. We cry together. I know I\u2019m supposed to be strong for her, like always but I\u2019m failing. How do I become strong when my whole life has just turned into smoke?<\/div>\n
A warm liquid trickles down my thighs. I close my eyes. Perfect timing menstrual period. I don\u2019t have pads or money.<\/div>\n
I take out my phone and dial Sibongile, my grandmother. It goes to voicemail. She and Grandfather left two weeks ago for Bulawayo to collect rent. They do this every month, vanish for two weeks and come back with a few groceries. We moved from Bulawayo to Khezi ten years ago because they wanted \u201croots.\u201d In reality it\u2019s as if they wanted to build a rural home for Kayise and me.<\/div>\n
My thumb hovers over Siphokazi\u2019s contact. I haven\u2019t spoken to her since our last fight. It was ugly, like all the others. I press call.<\/div>\n
She answers on the first ring,<\/div>\n
\u201cHey Nhlanhla.\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cThe house burned down,\u201d I say, voice breaking.<\/div>\n
\u201cThe one I built for Mom and Dad? Oh my God, are my sofas okay?\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cMy house. The one I built.\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cIf you want money, I don\u2019t have any. If you want to come and stay with my husband and me, the answer is no, Sinenhlanhla.\u201d<\/div>\n
\u201cMom that\u2019s not why I called. I was___<\/div>\n
\u201cNo ntombazana, I know you. What do you want then? Pity?\u201d<\/div>\n
I swallow the lump in my throat. \u201cNever mind. Calling you was a mistake.\u201d<\/div>\n
I end the call and wipe my face. I\u2019m on my own like always. No one is coming to save me, us.<\/div>\n
.<\/div>\n
.<\/div>\n
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.<\/div>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Prologue The Zimbabwean flag drapes the coffin like a final salute. On top, there is a beret, a belt, an […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"site-sidebar-layout":"default","site-content-layout":"","ast-site-content-layout":"default","site-content-style":"default","site-sidebar-style":"default","ast-global-header-display":"","ast-banner-title-visibility":"","ast-main-header-display":"","ast-hfb-above-header-display":"","ast-hfb-below-header-display":"","ast-hfb-mobile-header-display":"","site-post-title":"","ast-breadcrumbs-content":"","ast-featured-img":"","footer-sml-layout":"","ast-disable-related-posts":"","theme-transparent-header-meta":"default","adv-header-id-meta":"","stick-header-meta":"","header-above-stick-meta":"","header-main-stick-meta":"","header-below-stick-meta":"","astra-migrate-meta-layouts":"set","ast-page-background-enabled":"default","ast-page-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}},"ast-content-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-4)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-4)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-4)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}},"footnotes":""},"categories":[23],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-18975","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-void-novel"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/kezpres.xyz\/novelreading\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18975","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/kezpres.xyz\/novelreading\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/kezpres.xyz\/novelreading\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/kezpres.xyz\/novelreading\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/kezpres.xyz\/novelreading\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=18975"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/kezpres.xyz\/novelreading\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18975\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":18986,"href":"https:\/\/kezpres.xyz\/novelreading\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18975\/revisions\/18986"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/kezpres.xyz\/novelreading\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=18975"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/kezpres.xyz\/novelreading\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=18975"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/kezpres.xyz\/novelreading\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=18975"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}