Chapter 39: When the Past Knocks Softly
The sky was pale that morning, the kind of color that looked like it hadn't made up its mind—somewhere between silver and blue. A light breeze stirred the curtains in Oriana's apartment as Anya stood by the mirror, brushing her hair slowly, her heart quietly fluttering.
Today was different.
Today, she would meet someone from Oriana's past.
Someone Oriana had only ever spoken about in brief, reverent tones. Her aunt—Pa Orn—who raised her during some of the lonelier seasons of her life. The one who gave Oriana her first set of watercolors, the one who made jasmine rice tea when the world got too loud. Her safe person, before Anya ever arrived.
"You're nervous," Oriana said softly from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a fond smile.
"A little," Anya admitted, setting her brush down. "It feels… important."
"It is," Oriana said, walking toward her. "But you don't have to worry. She's going to love you."
Anya looked at her reflection, then at Oriana's eyes in the mirror. "How do you know?"
"Because I love you," Oriana said simply. "And she always said that anyone who makes me smile with my eyes is someone worth keeping."
Anya's lips curved. "Then I'll try to smile like that all day."
"You don't have to try," Oriana said, wrapping her arms around her from behind. "You already do."
They took a short ride to the old neighborhood where Oriana grew up—a quiet cluster of wooden homes nestled between trees, the streets uneven and warm with memory. It wasn't flashy or grand, but it had a kind of soul—like a place that had witnessed both laughter and heartbreak and still opened its arms to the world.
Pa Orn's house sat at the corner of a little garden lane, surrounded by frangipani trees and flowering vines that curled around the fence like blessings.
As they walked up the steps, Oriana paused.
"Are you ready?" she asked.
Anya nodded. "With you? Always."
Oriana smiled and knocked gently on the wooden door.
It opened moments later to reveal a woman with graying hair tied in a low bun, warm brown eyes, and the kind of face that looked like it had seen life and chosen gentleness anyway. She wore a soft pink blouse and carried the scent of lemongrass and something nostalgic—like steamed rice and old lullabies.
"Oriana," she said, her voice thick with emotion.
Oriana smiled and stepped into her arms. "Pa Orn."
They embraced, and in that moment, the years seemed to melt. Anya stood quietly, watching, feeling something sacred in the way they held each other—like pieces of a life coming home.
When they pulled apart, Oriana turned and gently reached for Anya's hand.
"Pa Orn, this is Anya."
Anya bowed politely. "S̄wạs̄dī kh̀a. It's an honor to meet you."
Pa Orn looked at her for a long moment, and then smiled—not politely, but deeply, like someone recognizing something precious.
"So this is the girl who makes my Oriana laugh again," she said, her voice soft. "Come in, child. You're already family."
Inside, the house smelled of old books and herbs. Woven baskets hung from the ceiling, and a shrine of framed black-and-white photos lined a shelf above a low table. Anya noticed a watercolor painting on the far wall—faint and delicate, signed in the corner in Oriana's name.
"You kept it," Oriana whispered, her eyes soft.
"It was the first time you painted with joy," Pa Orn said. "Of course I kept it."
They settled around a low table where cups of steaming lotus tea waited, and Anya listened as Oriana and her aunt talked about old times—about a younger Oriana who used to climb trees barefoot and sneak into the kitchen to steal sticky mango rice.
"She was always a little storm," Pa Orn chuckled, glancing at Anya. "But she had the heart of a sunrise. Quiet, beautiful, slow to rise—but once she did, everything felt warmer."
Anya smiled, her heart aching in the best way.
After tea, they walked through the small garden at the back of the house. The trees swayed with the wind, and flowers bloomed in quiet corners. Anya trailed her fingers along the edge of a ceramic birdbath, her mind full of Oriana's laughter and the soft voice of her aunt sharing stories Anya had never known.
As Oriana walked ahead to pick a fallen frangipani bloom, Pa Orn stepped closer to Anya.
"She loves you," she said, gently.
Anya turned. "I love her too."
"I know. I can see it."
There was a pause. Then Pa Orn placed a hand on her arm.
"I want to tell you something," she said. "Oriana… she's strong. But she carries things inside. Heavy things. Things she's never let the world see."
"I know," Anya replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
"If you choose to love her… it means loving her shadows too. The silences. The days she forgets how to speak gently. The nights she won't know how to ask for comfort."
"I'm staying," Anya said. "For all of it. All of her."
Pa Orn's smile was full of quiet gratitude. "Then she is lucky."
Later that afternoon, just before they left, Pa Orn handed Anya a small wrapped bundle.
"This belonged to Oriana's mother," she said. "She gave it to me before she passed. I was waiting for the right time. And the right person."
Anya opened it slowly, revealing a delicate silver hairpin carved with a lotus motif—slightly worn, but still beautiful.
"Are you sure?" she asked.
Pa Orn nodded. "Give it to her. When the moment is right. When you feel the weight of her heart and still want to carry it."
As they left the house, Oriana glanced over. "Did she say anything to you?"
"She told me stories," Anya said, smiling. "Ones I'll never forget."
That night, back at the apartment, Oriana curled beside her on the couch, her head resting on Anya's shoulder.
"I'm glad you met her," she murmured. "She's the only person from my past who made it feel like it was okay to have one."
"I think she's proud of you."
"I think I'm proud of me too. A little."
Anya turned, brushing her fingers down Oriana's cheek.
"I have something for you."
She placed the lotus hairpin in Oriana's hands.
For a moment, Oriana didn't speak. Her fingers trembled slightly as she looked down at it.
"This was hers," she whispered.
"She still lives in you," Anya said. "In your strength. In the way you love quietly but fiercely."
Oriana placed the pin gently on the table and leaned in, her forehead against Anya's.
"Thank you," she said. "For carrying pieces of me I didn't know I'd lost."
They kissed then—slow, full of all the days they'd walked through, all the ones still ahead.
And in that soft evening light, as wind brushed the windows and the city slept, Anya knew: love wasn't just about sweetness.
It was about walking into someone's past… and not flinching.