Chapter 42: The Space Where She Still Stands
The wind had changed again.
Colder now. Sharper around the edges.
The kind of breeze that wrapped around your shoulders like a whisper instead of a hug.
But still—it wasn't unwelcome. It wasn't cruel.
Anya stood beneath the tall ginkgo tree near the school gate, watching its golden leaves flutter down like confetti left behind by some celebration long finished. The sky above was pale, cloudless, the kind of blue that always made her think of Oriana's laugh—open, clear, full of sky.
She had started walking home slower these days.
Not to delay anything.
Just to feel things more carefully.
To notice the cracks in the sidewalk where moss grew, the way dusk clung longer to the power lines, how the river looked like glass at this hour. Things she might've rushed past before. Now she paid attention. As if the world had become a little more sacred in Oriana's absence.
And in her pocket, always, was a letter. One from Oriana. Folded neatly, corners soft from being handled too often. Sometimes, when her chest ached, Anya didn't even read it. Just touched it. Just reminded herself: She's real. She's still writing. We're still here.
At home, her room had changed in small ways.
The scrapbook now lay open on her desk at all times. Her sketches had grown bolder—more confident lines, more color. She no longer hesitated. She drew not because she was trying to hold on to Oriana, but because drawing felt like breathing again.
Next to her mirror, she had hung a small ribbon Oriana once tied around her braid. It caught the breeze from the window and fluttered softly whenever Anya opened the pane.
Even her mother had noticed the shift.
"You seem steadier," she said one evening over dinner. "Like you're walking with both feet again."
Anya smiled. "I think I am. It just took a while to remember how."
At school, a quiet comfort had begun forming around her.
Mina didn't hover, but she was there—offering her last piece of gum without asking, sometimes walking beside her in the hall without needing conversation.
"You going to the autumn festival?" Mina asked one day.
Anya blinked. "Probably."
"Good," Mina said. "Come with me. Just for a bit. It doesn't have to mean anything."
Anya tilted her head. "You're weird."
"I know," Mina said, bumping her shoulder gently. "But you need more weird in your life while she's away."
Anya laughed. And said yes.
The night of the festival, the streets were strung with lanterns.
Warm light flickered from every corner, casting long shadows across familiar paths. Children ran between booths with sparklers in hand, and the scent of grilled squid and cinnamon mochi curled through the air.
Anya wore a pale blue yukata—one her mother had carefully helped tie. Her hair was half up, the green clip from Oriana tucked just above her ear.
She didn't feel alone.
Not even once.
Mina met her by the water booth, a red candy apple in one hand. "You clean up well."
"So do you."
They wandered the festival quietly—watching performances, exchanging jokes, trying to win tiny prizes. Mina was better at the games. Anya was better at picking the best snacks.
As they walked past the wishing tree, Anya stopped.
Rows of colorful paper wishes hung like soft prayers.
She reached for a blank strip.
"What'll you write?" Mina asked, not nosy, just curious.
Anya thought for a long moment. Then, without hesitating, she wrote:
"To the girl who taught me how to love gently—
May the seasons always carry you back to me."
She folded it, tied it to the branch.
And smiled.
Back at home that night, the second scrapbook gained another page.
Pressed inside it was the tiny origami star Mina had won for her at one of the booths. It wasn't perfect—creased unevenly, corners off.
But it sparkled gold.
And beneath it, Anya wrote:
"I think she'd be proud of how I kept walking."
Oriana's next letter arrived three days later.
It was shorter than usual.
But it had something tucked inside—an instant photo of her room up north, Oriana half-smiling in the mirror, holding the same green clip in her fingers.
The note beneath read:
"I wore it today and someone asked if it was a gift.
I told them no.
I told them it was proof."
Anya pressed the photo against her chest and whispered, "Me too."
She placed it carefully inside the scrapbook. Smoothed the page.
And let the quiet fill the room—not as absence.
But as presence.
Because somehow, even miles away…
Oriana was still standing with her.