Chapter 46: Where the Wind Finally Stops
The morning after Oriana's return broke like a sigh.
Soft, pale light filtered in through Anya's curtains, painting long golden bars across the floorboards. The air smelled faintly of tea and lavender from the sachet tucked beneath her pillow.
She hadn't moved.
Neither had Oriana.
They were still curled together beneath the pale green blanket, heads nestled close, legs tangled like ribbon.
It was quiet.
Not the silence of distance.
But the stillness of being home.
Anya opened her eyes first.
For a moment, she didn't speak. She just stared at Oriana's sleeping face—lashes brushing her cheek, mouth parted slightly, breath warm against Anya's collar.
She looked peaceful. Real.
Like no time had passed at all.
Anya's fingers hovered above Oriana's wrist for a moment, then settled gently. The pulse was slow, steady. A rhythm she remembered.
"I missed this," she whispered.
And she didn't mean the sleep. She didn't mean the nearness.
She meant this: the quiet confirmation that Oriana still existed here, still chose to wake up beside her.
Still reached for her in the dark.
When Oriana stirred, it was slow—like water meeting shore.
She blinked twice, then smiled.
A full smile.
Not tired. Not polite.
But blooming.
"Hi," she whispered.
Anya smiled back. "Hi."
Oriana lifted her hand and touched Anya's hair. "You grew a little."
"You didn't."
"Rude," Oriana muttered, burying her face in the blanket. "I haven't been awake five minutes."
Anya laughed. "You look exactly like I remember."
Oriana peeked up. "Is that a good thing?"
"It's the best thing."
They stayed in bed for a while.
Not speaking much.
Just lying there. Breathing. Letting their fingers find familiar places. The hollow of a wrist. The space between ribs. The gentle press of knee to knee.
It wasn't rushed.
It wasn't like in the movies.
It was better—real, slow, almost reverent.
Like they knew what it meant to be apart now.
And knew how sacred it was to return.
Eventually, hunger pulled them up.
Anya shuffled into the kitchen in slippers, hair mussed, cheeks flushed. She made warm rice and tamagoyaki, slicing the omelet carefully like her mother had taught her.
Oriana leaned in the doorway, still wrapped in the blanket like a wandering ghost.
"Are you domestic now?" she teased.
"I survived without you. That's not the same."
Oriana smirked, pushing her hair behind her ear. "It's kind of hot."
Anya nearly dropped the pan.
"You're the worst."
"I missed you too."
They ate on the floor beside the low table, knees bumping. Oriana ate slowly, like she was trying to memorize the taste.
"I kept trying to find food like this," she said between bites. "I couldn't."
Anya looked up. "Because you missed me?"
"No," Oriana said seriously. "Because your egg ratio is better. I respect culinary integrity."
Anya threw a napkin at her.
They laughed.
The sound startled the cat next door. Somewhere, a window opened and closed.
And in that brief second, Anya felt it again:
We're real. This is real.
Later, they went for a walk.
The air was crisp, the sky pale and blue. Leaves scattered in lazy spirals on the pavement. Oriana wore Anya's spare coat, sleeves too long, collar pulled high against the wind.
They didn't hold hands at first.
They just walked, side by side.
The rhythm returned slowly—like a song they hadn't sung in months but still remembered the melody of.
They passed the old bookstore. Closed today. But the bell above the door jingled faintly in the breeze.
Oriana stopped walking.
"Do you ever think about the first time we met?" she asked quietly.
Anya smiled. "Every time I walk past this door."
"You were so scared of me."
"You were terrifying."
"I was just tall."
"You were tall and beautiful and aloof."
"I was hungry."
They both laughed.
Then Oriana turned, facing her fully.
"You're not scared of me now, are you?"
Anya stepped forward.
"Only of forgetting how this feels."
Oriana touched her cheek. "I won't let you."
They visited the riverside next.
The same bench. The same crooked lamppost. The water moved more slowly now, heavy with the weight of winter.
Oriana took Anya's hand.
"It's different."
"I know."
"But still here."
"Like us."
They sat in silence for a while, watching a heron skim across the water. The sun dipped lower, casting everything in amber.
"I thought being apart would break something," Oriana said softly. "But maybe it just made space."
"For what?"
"For this."
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded note.
Not a letter.
Just a single line.
"You became my season."
Anya traced the words with her thumb.
"I think I always was."
They returned home as the sky turned violet.
Inside, Oriana helped her light the kotatsu, and they slid beneath the blanket, legs warm, hands curled around cups of hot tea.
They didn't speak for a while.
Then Oriana leaned forward, voice quieter than steam.
"I had dreams about you, you know."
Anya looked over. "What kind?"
"Mostly the kind where you didn't wait."
"I wasn't waiting."
Oriana blinked.
Anya reached for her hand. "I was growing. And hoping. And remembering."
Oriana smiled faintly. "That's braver than waiting."
"It's all I could do."
Oriana looked down at their interlocked fingers. "I think you saved me."
"How?"
"By becoming something I wanted to come back to."
That night, they didn't sleep apart.
They curled into each other again.
No words. No fear. No performance.
Just warmth. And breath. And two hearts slowly syncing.
Anya pressed her forehead to Oriana's.
"I don't need you to promise anything," she whispered.
"I know."
"But I want you to stay."
"I'm not going anywhere."
Anya kissed her softly.
Not desperately. Not as proof.
Just because she could.
And that was enough.
Outside, the wind softened.
Inside, the silence finally settled.
And the season—their season—began again.