Chapter 22: The Sound of Her Name at Night
The night stretched longer without her.
Not colder. Just wider. Like a space that used to hold something now quietly waiting for its return.
Anya lay on her side, eyes open in the dark.
The bed was too quiet. The moonlight too bright. The pillow beside her still held the faintest trace of Oriana's shampoo—wild jasmine, soft and dry like laughter after rain.
She had left just after dinner.
"I need a night at home," Oriana had said gently, standing by the door with her hands in her sleeves. "Just to clear my head. It's not you—it's just…" She had struggled for the words. "Sometimes the quiet helps me find myself again."
Anya had understood.
And smiled, because she knew Oriana wasn't walking away.
Just stepping out into her own breath for a moment.
But still—
Now, hours later, the house had taken on a strange shape. Every room still looked the same, but they felt different. Less like pages from a shared story, more like photographs of a time when she was still waiting for Oriana to come back.
Anya got out of bed and walked barefoot to the window.
The town below was quiet.
Shuttered shops. Sleeping trees. A few porch lights casting golden pools onto the pavement. And far down the street, a single lamp flickering like a tired heartbeat.
She wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and leaned against the frame.
The breeze was cool tonight. Gentle. It reminded her of the first night Oriana had stayed over—how she'd fallen asleep with her hair damp and her fingers clutching the corner of Anya's sleeve like a child afraid of being left behind.
That memory stayed with her now.
Not as sadness, but as proof: Oriana had stayed. And stayed again. And always found her way back.
Anya whispered her name softly.
"Oriana."
Just to feel it in the air.
Just to keep it alive in the room.
Down the street, Oriana sat in her own bed, knees pulled to her chest.
The room was lit only by a single lamp on the desk. The light made shadows dance across the ceiling, long and slow, like ghosts stretching toward something they couldn't touch.
She had unpacked nothing.
Her bag sat untouched by the dresser. Her phone turned upside down.
Everything in this house reminded her of the version of herself she used to be—quiet in a way that wasn't peaceful, but protective. She looked at the walls, the shelves, the drawings she'd once hidden under stacks of notebooks. All those years she spent folding herself smaller and smaller.
And yet—
Now, all she could think about was Anya.
How her presence filled a room without ever making it heavy. How her voice didn't try to fix, only soften. How she listened with her whole body, even in silence.
Oriana stood up and crossed the room to the mirror.
She stared at her reflection.
Then whispered, "You love her."
It didn't feel like a confession.
It felt like a homecoming.
Back in Anya's house, the paper birds sat on the windowsill.
Twelve of them now.
One folded for each quiet evening shared. For each morning that came with a smile. For each moment where Oriana looked at her and didn't run.
Anya sat at her desk and picked up the thirteenth sheet of paper.
Lavender this time.
She folded slowly, creasing the wings with care, pressing the paper into shape like it mattered. Like every corner held memory. Like every fold was a whisper.
When she was done, she placed the new bird in the row.
It faced the others.
As if waiting for them to turn back toward it.
Oriana stood outside before midnight.
The wind had picked up slightly, brushing her hair into her face, tugging at her coat. The street was empty, save for the slow flicker of that one lamp and the faint sound of a cat brushing against someone's fence.
She didn't knock right away.
She stood at Anya's gate and stared at the house.
The light in the upstairs room was still on.
She smiled.
Because she knew Anya would be awake. Not waiting—but awake. Like a quiet lighthouse with its beam still circling, not because anything was lost, but because it had learned to guide.
She pushed the gate open and stepped inside.
Anya heard the creak of the gate before she heard the knock.
She was already halfway to the door when it came—a gentle, three-tap rhythm that was more heartbeat than greeting.
When she opened it, Oriana stood there, hair windblown, cheeks pink from the cold.
"I couldn't sleep," she said.
Anya reached for her hand.
"You don't need to explain."
Oriana stepped forward and rested her forehead against Anya's collarbone.
"I missed the way you say my name," she whispered.
Anya kissed the top of her head.
"Then come inside," she said. "Let me remind you."
Back in the bedroom, they didn't speak much.
They just curled under the blanket like a thread stitching itself back into fabric.
Oriana's hands were cold, but Anya didn't flinch. She pulled them close, pressed them between her palms.
"Say it again," Oriana said softly.
Anya brushed her lips to Oriana's ear.
"Oriana."
And again.
"Oriana."
She said it like a song. Like a prayer.
And Oriana, with her eyes closed and her heart held gently, exhaled the last of the loneliness.
That night, they didn't need to talk about what absence meant.
They only had to hold each other through it.
Because some nights aren't about what's said.
They're about whose name you whisper to the darkness.
And who comes back to say it with you.