Chapter 44: Five Weeks of Sky
It was strange how the world could move forward and still feel like it was waiting with you.
Like time itself had slowed to match Anya's heart.
The trees along her walk to school had shed most of their leaves. Bare branches stretched up into clouds like fingers trying to hold something invisible. And every morning, Anya stopped beside the cracked garden wall where they used to lean their bikes, just to watch how the light fell between the trees.
The days were colder now.
Mornings fogged her windowpane, and her scarf always smelled faintly of ginger from her mother's tea. She liked that. The way the small things wrapped themselves around her like promises.
Each week brought her closer to Oriana's return.
And every day felt more vivid for it.
She made a habit of writing in the scrapbook before bed.
Sometimes just a sentence.
Sometimes half a page.
Once, a full drawing of the wind, personified—long hair, bare feet, arms trailing maple leaves behind her like soft regret.
Underneath, she wrote:
"You told me once the wind was your first love.
I think it still carries the sound of your voice."
At school, everything slowed.
Finals approached, but the weight of study didn't crush her like it once had. She wasn't chasing anything anymore. She wasn't even waiting.
She was preparing.
She was readying herself for joy.
"You're glowing again," Mina said one morning, nudging her with her shoulder. "It's kind of annoying."
Anya laughed. "You've told me that three times this week."
"I know. It hasn't stopped being true."
They walked together toward the main building. The courtyard was scattered with brittle leaves that crunched beneath their shoes. Someone had strung paper cranes in the hallways—white and gold, fluttering slightly in the breeze.
"Are you nervous?" Mina asked suddenly.
Anya paused. "About her coming back?"
"Yeah. I mean… what if it feels different?"
Anya looked up at the sky, pale and silvered with cloud. "It will. But I don't think that's a bad thing."
Mina nodded slowly, then smirked. "You're kind of insufferable when you're wise."
"You love it."
"I tolerate it."
Oriana's next letter was shorter.
A single page.
But every word was underlined in feeling.
"My Anya,
I can't stop thinking about how the train will sound when it pulls into our station again. About how the sky will look above our river. I dream about the smell of your notebook and the way your fingers fidget when you're nervous.
Sometimes I miss you so much I forget how to fold my laundry.
I keep finding petals in my sleeves.
See you soon.
Soon.
Soon.
O."
Anya read it on the train ride home, her forehead pressed to the window. The sky was beginning to dim, streaked with faint pinks and greys. The kind of sky that felt like something unsaid.
She closed her eyes and whispered, "Soon."
Each Saturday, she added something to the box she was preparing for Oriana.
A tiny bell from the bookstore shelf—the one they used to shake when no one came to the counter.
A hand-drawn map of their neighborhood, but filled with memories instead of names. The café was labeled: First I Love You. The park bench: Where We Didn't Need to Speak. Her own house: Where You Forgot to Leave.
And last, a folded paper star with her handwriting on each crease:
"I kept loving you even when the air turned cold."
She tied the box with simple twine and placed it on her desk, beside the second scrapbook, beside the blanket, beside everything that had become her season of waiting.
One evening, after dinner, Anya's mother knocked on the door.
"Can I come in?"
Anya nodded, closing her journal. "Sure."
Her mother stepped in, holding two cups of hot barley tea, and sat on the edge of the bed. She passed one over, then glanced around at the room—softly lit, tidy, full of sketches taped to the walls and notes folded into corners.
"She wrote again?" her mother asked, eyeing the envelope on the desk.
Anya nodded. "She always does."
Her mother sipped her tea. "You've changed."
Anya blinked. "How?"
"You don't hide anymore," she said. "Even when it hurts."
Anya looked down into her cup, letting the steam warm her face.
"She helped me learn how to do that," she said quietly. "And being apart… it made me see how much I want to keep learning."
Her mother smiled. "You're growing into someone brave."
"I'm trying."
"That's all anyone can do."
They sat in silence for a moment.
Then her mother reached over and gently squeezed her hand.
"You'll see her soon," she said.
"I know," Anya said. And this time, she meant it in a way that didn't tremble.
At school, holiday decorations began appearing.
Paper stars on the windows. Red ribbons tied to stair rails. And in the music room, someone played the same winter melody every afternoon—soft, melancholic, but beautiful.
Anya found herself humming it often.
One afternoon, while packing up her sketchbook, Mina passed her a folded note. "From the art teacher," she said. "She wants you to submit something for the year-end gallery."
Anya frowned. "Me?"
"She said you've grown. That she wants something honest."
Anya looked down at her hands. "What would I even paint?"
Mina shrugged. "Paint her. Paint absence. Paint what love looked like when it left and still stayed."
Anya didn't answer. But that night, she pulled out a fresh canvas.
And she began.
It took her days.
Slow layers.
Blues and golds.
Hands not quite touching.
A scarf on a windless clothesline.
And in the background, stars—not bright, not overwhelming. Just present.
At the bottom corner, in faint pencil:
"I didn't stop waiting.
I just started becoming."
She didn't know if anyone else would understand it.
She didn't care.
It was hers.
And Oriana's.
And all the weeks that had carried them here.
The final letter came with a train schedule tucked inside.
No words.
Just a single date circled in soft pink marker.
December 28th.
Three days before the New Year.
Anya stared at it, heart thudding, and then slowly, she pressed her palm to the calendar.
A soft laugh escaped her.
It was really happening.
The season was ending.
But not the love.
The love, she realized, had never been tied to the distance.
Only the feeling.
And the feeling was still here.
Everywhere.