Chapter 53: A Letter That Waited Too Long
The morning came soft again.
Oriana was the first to rise this time, barefoot on the warm wooden floor, her hair still messy from sleep. She didn't disturb Anya, who lay cocooned under the blanket on the floor, one hand curled near her chin like she was still dreaming something tender.
In the kitchen, Oriana moved gently, making breakfast without thought. Rice porridge with ginger. Toasted sesame. A boiled egg cut neatly in half. Everything she knew Anya liked but never asked for.
She moved like the room remembered her steps.
And when she finished, she didn't wake Anya right away. Instead, she placed the small meal on a tray, then sat at the table with her tea, looking out the window toward the pale city sky.
It was there, in the mail slot beneath the door, that she noticed something waiting.
A letter.
She picked it up slowly, as if it might whisper if she held it too fast.
It was thin. White. No return address. Just her name in a careful, familiar handwriting she hadn't seen in almost a year.
Oriana.
That was all it said.
Not even her surname.
Her fingers tightened.
She knew who it was from before she even turned it over.
She sat down again, the letter resting in her lap. The paper was slightly wrinkled, as if it had taken a long journey. She stared at it for a while. Didn't open it. Just let it sit there. The weight of it—not physical, but emotional—pressed gently against her knees.
Behind her, Anya stirred.
"Morning," came the soft voice, still thick with sleep.
Oriana folded the letter once more and slid it into her pocket.
She turned. "Morning," she said with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
Anya blinked sleepily. "You're up early."
"I wanted to make breakfast."
Anya sat up, stretching like a cat in sunlight. "You didn't have to."
"I wanted to," Oriana repeated, this time a little softer.
They ate together, side by side on the floor with the small tray between them. Anya smiled at each bite. Told Oriana it was perfect. Told her this felt like something out of a memory they hadn't lived yet.
And Oriana smiled.
But her fingers kept brushing against the letter in her pocket. Not opening it. Just remembering.
After breakfast, they washed the dishes together, music playing low, laughter returning to fill the space between plates and water and towels.
Then Anya paused, drying her hands.
"You okay?" she asked.
Oriana looked up, startled.
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know. You feel a little… elsewhere today."
Oriana hesitated. Then she reached into her pocket and placed the letter on the counter between them.
Anya looked at it. "Who's it from?"
"My father."
Anya didn't speak.
Oriana continued, her voice quiet. "I haven't heard from him since he left. It's been almost a year."
Anya looked at her gently. "You haven't opened it."
"I don't know if I want to."
Anya dried her hands and leaned against the counter. "You don't have to. Not now. Not ever, if it hurts."
Oriana looked at her. "But it's here. And I can't pretend it's not."
Anya nodded. "Want me to stay while you read it?"
There was a long pause. Then Oriana whispered, "Yes."
They sat down together again at the table. The same place they always sat—where tea had been shared, where silences had been held like prayers.
Oriana opened the envelope carefully. The letter inside was short. Two pages. The handwriting neat. Familiar.
She read it once through.
Then again.
Her face didn't shift much. But her eyes darkened at the edges.
When she finished, she folded it and slid it between her palms. She didn't speak.
Anya waited.
Finally, Oriana said, "He says he's sorry."
Anya looked at her quietly.
"He says he didn't know how to be a father. That he was too afraid to stay and too ashamed to come back. He says he thought I'd be better off without him."
"And do you believe that?" Anya asked softly.
"No," Oriana whispered. "But I understand it."
She looked down at her hands. "He wants to meet. Just once. He's moving farther away soon. He says if I don't want to, he'll respect it."
Anya reached out and gently took her hand. "What do you want?"
Oriana was quiet for a long time.
"I don't know," she finally said. "I want to ask him why. But I also don't want to reopen that wound. I've just started to feel… whole again."
Anya's thumb brushed lightly over her knuckles. "Wholeness doesn't mean avoiding pain. It just means knowing you can survive it."
Oriana looked at her. "You're the reason I know that."
They sat like that for a while—hand in hand, the letter resting between them like a third presence neither welcomed nor rejected.
Later that day, Oriana tucked it into her journal. Not in anger. Not in longing. Just in acknowledgment. It was part of her story, whether she chose to revisit it or not.
She stood beside Anya as the sun dipped behind the buildings, her arms loosely around her waist.
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For not trying to fix it. For not trying to make it smaller."
Anya turned and held her gently. "It's not small. You're allowed to feel everything."
They didn't speak of it again that evening.
Instead, they made soup.
They watched an old movie that neither of them really followed.
They dozed off on the couch, Oriana's head in Anya's lap, Anya's fingers stroking her hair in slow circles.
And somewhere deep in the silence, Oriana's heart unclenched—not because the past was healed, but because the present had room for it.