Chapter 10: To the Ones Who Still Whisper
It began with a breath.
No letter. No tile. No offering wrapped in ribbon.
Just a woman who came to the Listening Wall, stood beneath the almond tree, and whispered a name aloud.
It carried softly through the night air. A name spoken like it had waited years to be said. Anya heard it from the porch, where she'd been trimming dried petals from an old bouquet. She froze.
Oriana stepped beside her.
"Did you hear that?" Anya whispered.
"Yes," Oriana said, her voice steady. "She's not writing it. She's giving it air."
By morning, word had spread.
Visitors—some who had stayed, others who had returned—began to come back not to write, but to speak. As if the wall had listened long enough in silence and was ready to echo back sound.
Anya prepared the garden that afternoon. She lit candles and lined the path with smooth stones. Oriana hung lanterns from tree branches, their glow casting soft halos on the ground.
They didn't announce it.
They simply let it happen.
At twilight, people began to gather.
A woman in a faded yellow scarf stood first.
She took a deep breath and said, "Kanya. I loved you when we were seventeen and our hands brushed during prayers."
The next was a man with a shaking voice. "I told him I was fine. I wasn't. I missed him every morning. His name was Thit."
One by one, names filled the garden like rain.
Some cried.
Some smiled.
Some just stood quietly after, eyes closed, as if they'd finally exhaled after years of holding their breath.
When the last candle had flickered low and the visitors returned to their rooms or beds beneath the trees, only Anya and Oriana remained.
They sat together at the edge of the Listening Wall, wrapped in a shared shawl, backs pressed against the clay tiles still warm from the day's sun.
Anya looked up at the stars. "So many names."
Oriana turned to her. "And none of them yours."
Anya blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," Oriana said gently, "you've helped everyone name their love. But have you said mine?"
Anya's breath caught.
She turned to face Oriana fully, the soft lamplight dancing in her eyes.
Then, without hesitation, she whispered, "Oriana."
Oriana's hand found hers.
But Anya didn't stop.
She pressed closer, voice trembling now.
"Oriana, I loved you the moment you said 'let me stay.' I loved you when you burned your first rice porridge. I loved you when you wept beside that first letter. And I love you now, in this silence. In this sound."
Oriana's eyes filled.
She leaned in, resting her forehead against Anya's.
"Then say it again," she whispered.
Anya kissed her.
And it was not a kiss made of shyness or sweetness—it was want.
Oriana pulled her closer, lips parting, breath caught. Anya's hands slid along Oriana's waist, tugging her into her lap, heart pounding as her fingers found the soft curve of her spine.
Their mouths met again—hungrier now, wetter, teeth grazing lips, breath growing louder between gasps. Oriana straddled Anya, robe falling open as skin met skin.
"You're mine," Anya breathed against her throat.
"I've always been," Oriana whispered.
They didn't go back to the house.
Not yet.
They laid down right there, on the garden blanket beneath the almond tree, lanterns swaying gently above them like stars made by hand.
Anya kissed every inch she could reach—neck, collarbone, the hollow between Oriana's ribs. Her fingers traced the lines of Oriana's thighs, her belly, her breasts—each touch reverent, as though Oriana were written in a language only her hands could read.
Oriana's back arched.
She whispered Anya's name again and again, her breath catching, her fingers digging into Anya's shoulders as their bodies moved together—slow at first, then deeper, harder, waves crashing against rocks they had waited a lifetime to find.
When release came, it wasn't just in a gasp or a moan.
It was in tears.
In laughter.
In a whisper between them that said, Now we've named this too.
Later, they lay tangled together, the night wrapped around them like a shawl.
Oriana traced small circles over Anya's stomach.
"Should we add our names again?" she asked softly.
Anya shook her head.
"No. We spoke them tonight. The wall remembers."
"And what about tomorrow?" Oriana whispered.
Anya smiled. "We'll speak again. As long as we have breath, we'll never be the ones who stayed silent."
Just before dawn, as they gathered their clothes and walked barefoot back to the porch, Oriana looked back once.
The wind moved gently across the wall, rustling the jasmine vine.
And she could swear it whispered back their names.