Chapter 58: The Night We Sent Wishes Down the River
The invitation came from my neighbor, Auntie Malee — a plump, sweet woman with a soft laugh and a garden full of sleeping lotus. She handed it to me on a Thursday evening, folded into a pink envelope that smelled faintly of lemongrass and old perfume.
Inside was a note written in faded ink:
Dear Anya,
This Saturday, we will host the Moonlight Lantern Festival at the small canal near the old shrine. It's a quiet thing — not loud like the city fairs. Just a handful of neighbors, old songs, and wishes made of paper.
Come if you'd like. Bring a friend if they smile gently.
Warmly,
Auntie Malee
I smiled as I read the last line again. Bring a friend if they smile gently.
I already knew who I'd bring.
Oriana said yes with that soft tilt of her head, the one she gives when her heart has already agreed but her lips take a moment to catch up.
"I've never been to a lantern festival," she said as we walked to school the next morning, our fingers brushing like wind over water.
"This one isn't like the ones you see in movies," I warned gently. "It's quieter. You'll see children with paint on their cheeks and grandmothers humming old lullabies. And the lanterns are simple — just rice paper and candlelight. But they float like they're dreaming."
She smiled. "Then it sounds perfect."
Saturday arrived wrapped in warm clouds and the hush of crickets. The sun softened early that day, slipping behind the hills like it knew the lanterns would need space to shine.
Oriana came to my house just after six. She wore a pale pink dress, simple and soft, with a white ribbon tied around her wrist instead of her hair. I had on a long linen skirt and a blouse that still smelled faintly of jasmine from the sachet in my drawer.
"You look like a wish," she said, the moment she saw me.
I touched her ribbon gently. "So do you."
We walked to the canal hand in hand, our footsteps slow and barefoot, as the road was lined with candles in tiny coconut shells.
Children ran past us with giggles and paintbrushes. Someone played a bamboo flute nearby. The music curled around us like silk.
At the water's edge, the world glowed.
Dozens of lanterns waited — floating bowls made of banana leaves and folded petals, each cradling a flickering light. Some held prayers written on rice paper. Others had tiny offerings: flowers, coins, even a piece of fruit.
The air smelled of smoke, mango, and sweet rice.
Auntie Malee found us near the edge.
She beamed. "Ah, Anya. And this must be your gentle-smiling friend."
Oriana blushed. "Yes, ma'am."
Auntie Malee handed us a lantern. "Make a wish. Don't rush. The river doesn't like being hurried."
We found a quiet corner near the old shrine wall and knelt together.
"What should we wish for?" I whispered.
Oriana tilted her head. "Something small. Something real."
We sat in silence for a while.
Then I took out a pen and wrote in the corner of the lantern:
Let her always find her way back to me.
Oriana saw it.
She didn't cry.
But she reached for the pen and added beside it:
Let the world grow gentle enough that we don't have to hide.
We folded the paper and placed it at the center of the lantern. Then we each touched the edge of the banana leaf bowl and slowly placed it into the water.
It floated gently.
Softly.
Until the current caught it — and it drifted away like a dream that didn't need remembering.
Later, we sat near the edge of the wooden footbridge, our legs dangling over the water, bare feet brushing against the breeze.
Lanterns floated past beneath us — glowing softly like stars that had grown tired of the sky.
"I never believed in forever," Oriana said.
"Why?"
She shrugged. "Because everything I've loved always left. Or changed. Or got taken."
I rested my head on her shoulder. "What about now?"
She was quiet.
Then: "You feel like the kind of forever that doesn't need to be long. Just true."
I closed my eyes. "I'll take that kind of forever."
The flute music changed.
Now a lullaby.
A child's voice began to sing — soft and high, a melody I hadn't heard in years.
It was a song my grandmother used to hum while folding laundry:
Let the light float slowly,
Across the night's deep sigh.
Carry our little dreams,
Under the lotus sky…
Oriana's fingers found mine.
"I used to dream of escaping," she said. "From my house. From people. From the silence that felt like a trap."
"And now?"
"I still dream of leaving."
She turned to look at me.
"But now I want to go somewhere with you. Not run. Just… go."
After the festival, as we walked home beneath the starlit canopy of leaves, Oriana stopped near the rain tree.
"Anya," she said quietly. "Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"If we had one year left — just one — and no one was watching, what would you want?"
I turned to her.
"I'd want what we already have. You. Letters. Laughter. Maybe a tiny house filled with windows. A bed with soft sheets. A shelf filled with notebooks and ribbon."
She smiled. "No grand cities? No huge dreams?"
"Just us. That's already everything."
Oriana stepped closer.
"I want that too."
When we reached my house, she didn't come in.
We stood outside the gate, the night warm and soft between us.
She leaned in and kissed me — gently, slowly, her hand brushing my cheek.
Then she whispered, "I'll write tonight."
"You always do."
I watched her walk away, her pink dress catching the wind.
And I thought:
Some people enter your life like seasons.
But Oriana —
She stayed like the sky.