Chapter 54: A Place Where the Wind Knows Our Names
Oriana didn't say anything the next morning.
But when she woke, she already had her bag packed. Nothing dramatic—just a change of clothes, her sketchbook, two hair ties, and the necklace Anya had once looped around her wrist instead of her neck, saying it suits you better this way.
Anya blinked awake to the sound of zippers.
"You're leaving?" she asked, voice still half-asleep.
Oriana turned, her eyes calm. "I'm not going far."
"Where are you going?"
Oriana gave a small smile. "Only if you're coming with me."
Anya sat up. "Is it time?"
"No," Oriana said. "But it's space. I think we need that first."
And so, by midmorning, they were on a train heading east—away from the edges of the city and into quieter lands where the buildings gave way to rice fields and the horizon stretched like something unfinished but hopeful.
Anya had packed in a rush, carrying only her journal, Oriana's cardigan, and a pair of shoes that didn't quite match. But it didn't matter. Nothing had to be perfect. Not today.
The train rocked gently beneath them, a rhythm that made conversation slow and natural. Oriana leaned her head against the window, watching the trees blur by, her hand resting in Anya's without a word.
They didn't talk about the letter.
Not directly.
But it lingered between them—not heavy, just present.
As the train curved along a narrow ridge, Anya finally broke the silence. "Where are we going?"
"There's a village by the river. I used to go there with my grandmother," Oriana said. "It's quiet. Honest."
Anya smiled. "I think I like that."
When they arrived, the air was different.
Lighter. Cleaner.
There was no noise of engines, no neon flicker. Just the soft rush of trees bending in wind and the clink of glass from a noodle cart being pushed across gravel.
The guesthouse Oriana had chosen was simple—wooden walls, woven ceilings, a garden out front that smelled of basil and lemongrass. There was a swing by the tree and a hammock stretched between two narrow poles. The room had only one bed.
Anya dropped her bag by the door. "It's perfect."
Oriana didn't answer. She was already at the window, eyes distant, breathing something in that Anya couldn't quite see.
That afternoon, they walked to the riverbank.
The water was low and glassy, reflecting a sky scattered with slow-moving clouds. Children played in the distance, shouting over skipping stones. But where Oriana and Anya sat—beneath a fig tree's wide arms—it was quiet.
"I used to come here when I didn't know what I was feeling," Oriana said. "My grandmother said the river doesn't need your answers. Only your presence."
Anya picked up a small stone and turned it over in her palm. "I feel like I've been living with too many questions."
Oriana looked at her. "Me too."
They sat together for a long time, their shoulders just touching, the sun slowly dipping behind the hills like it didn't want to leave.
Eventually, Anya turned. "Are you going to meet him?"
Oriana didn't flinch.
"I think I will," she said. "But not to fix anything. Just to show myself that I can walk into a room and not shatter."
Anya nodded. "I'll be waiting. On the other side."
"You always are," Oriana whispered.
That night, they ate at a small food stall—grilled fish, sticky rice, banana leaf parcels that tasted like memory. Oriana laughed more than usual. Anya told stories about her childhood, about getting lost in a grocery store and pretending she lived there. They ate until their hands were sticky and their hearts full.
Back in their room, the windows open to let in the breeze, Oriana sat on the edge of the bed, brushing her hair slowly.
Anya came up behind her, wordless.
She took the brush.
And with delicate hands, she continued the rhythm, untangling strands like she was reading a story from the ends inward.
Oriana closed her eyes.
"Do you ever wish," Anya said softly, "that we'd met sooner?"
"No," Oriana said. "Because I wouldn't have been ready. You wouldn't have either."
Anya leaned forward, pressing her forehead gently to Oriana's back. "I think I was always waiting for you. I just didn't know what for."
Oriana turned, catching her hand.
"Stay," she whispered.
"I'm not going anywhere," Anya replied.
They lay down in the quiet after that. No kisses. No questions. Just their arms wrapped around each other and the slow movement of night passing gently overhead.
Anya dreamed of rain.
Of roots reaching underground, touching, growing toward one another without ever needing to speak.
The next morning, the air was soft with mist.
They woke early and walked barefoot in the garden, dew catching on their toes. Oriana held Anya's hand as they moved slowly, greeting the light like a promise.
They didn't speak of the past. Not of fathers or wounds or words written too late.
They spoke of now.
Of basil leaves and wet grass. Of how Anya's hair curled when it rained. Of how Oriana's fingers always found the seam of her sleeve when she was thinking.
They spoke of everything small.
And that made it sacred.
Later, before they left, Oriana stood by the river one last time.
Anya stayed beside her but didn't interrupt.
Oriana reached into her bag and pulled out a small stone. On it, written in black pen, were two words:
"Still healing."
She tossed it gently into the river.
And it sank without a sound.
When Oriana turned to Anya, her eyes were not full of tears.
They were full of peace.
"I'm ready now," she said.
Anya took her hand.
And together, they walked back toward the train.
Not because they were escaping.
But because they had made something whole in the quiet.
And now they could return, not to the past—
—but to the love they had chosen again.