Chapter 17: When the Wind Carries Her Name
It began with wind.
A soft one. Almost unsure of itself. The kind that passed through paper doors and curled around wooden shutters like a whisper too shy to speak.
Anya sat beneath the old cherry tree, her sketchbook open but untouched. The pencil rested limply in her fingers, the page still blank. All the colors in her heart, all the blooming chaos that usually poured from her hands, felt distant.
She had not seen Oriana since that night.
The night when the rain fell and the world trembled and something fragile had passed between them—something unspeakable, something holy.
Anya closed her eyes and listened. The birds were loud today. Not loud in volume, but in emotion. They chirped with stories. With longing. With names.
"Oriana," she whispered, as if the name itself might bring her back.
But only the wind answered, tugging softly at her hair.
She hadn't dared text her. Not after the look Oriana had given her—eyes that begged to stay, and yet were already halfway gone. Eyes that held stars but looked away from them.
Was it fear? Or something deeper?
The question had no answer, only aching.
In another part of the town, Oriana stood barefoot in her kitchen, a chipped teacup between her palms. Her grandmother was out at the market. The house was quiet, except for the creak of the beams and the soft sound of the tea boiling too long.
She had read Anya's message twelve times.
"I miss the way you laugh at clouds."
It was such a small thing to say. And yet Oriana had cried when she read it.
Not because it hurt.
But because it didn't.
It was gentle. It didn't ask for anything. It just… existed.
Like Anya always did. Softly present. Like rain on leaves. Like evening light. Like things that stayed even when everything else left.
Oriana set the cup down and walked outside. The sky above was overcast, but it didn't rain. It just threatened to, holding the weight of unspoken emotion like she did.
She remembered that night clearly.
How Anya's fingers had reached out—not to pull her closer, but to let her know she could be close if she wanted to.
That she didn't have to run.
That she could stay.
Oriana closed her eyes.
And then she started walking.
The cherry tree knew her footsteps. It had heard them before—years ago, when she was a child running through the yard. And then again, more recently, when those steps had grown cautious, hesitant. Like she wasn't sure she was allowed to return.
Now, they were neither rushed nor hesitant. Just quiet. Just real.
Anya looked up when she heard them.
For a moment, they both just stood there—neither moving, neither speaking.
Just breathing the same air.
Then Oriana sat beside her.
She didn't speak right away. She didn't have to. The silence between them had already been stitched by too many shared moments to ever truly be empty.
Anya turned the page in her sketchbook. There was nothing on it. But it didn't matter.
"You came," she said softly.
"I had to," Oriana replied.
A long pause.
And then, almost breaking, Oriana said, "I was scared."
Anya didn't ask of what.
She already knew.
"Me too," she said. "But I'd still choose this. Even scared."
Oriana looked at her.
Looked at the girl with ink-stained fingers, with sunlight always clinging to her hair, with a laugh that made shadows quiet.
She whispered, "Why?"
Anya didn't answer with words.
She simply leaned her head on Oriana's shoulder.
"I guess," she murmured, "because you feel like seasons."
Oriana furrowed her brow. "What does that mean?"
"You change everything," Anya said. "But still make it feel like home."