If I'd known those scuffed cardboard boxes held the last pieces of my "normal" days, I'd have stopped Mia from drawing mangoes all over hers with neon markers.
I was fifteen, Mia fourteen, and our Tokyo apartment reeked of tape adhesive and sun-warmed dust.
My bed was stripped bare—no more manga stacked on the nightstand, no more crumpled homework tucked under the mattress. Just a pile of folded hoodies I'd avoided sorting for two days.
I knelt by a box labeled "Jax's Manga (HANDS OFF)," shoving a tattered volume of my favorite series inside.
The cover had a coffee stain from Dad's morning spill last winter. The spine cracked when I closed it, a sound I'd heard a hundred times before.
"Jax! Have you seen my gray elephant plush?!" Mia's voice shrilled from her room next door.
I rolled my eyes, not looking up. "Top shelf of your closet! You hid it there when Mom said we had to donate 'clutter'!"
A second later, she barreled into my room, plush clutched to her chest, cheeks pink from running.
Her own box—covered in lopsided mango and temple doodles—sat half-open on the floor.
"Found him!" she said, holding the elephant up like a trophy. "Mr. Trunk's coming to Chiang Mai. He's gotta try sticky rice."
I snickered. "He's a stuffed animal. He doesn't have a mouth."
"He feels hunger," she huffed, tucking Mr. Trunk into her box, fingers brushing its ear gently.
"And you're bringing that dorky Thai history book, so don't judge."
She nodded at the book on my desk—dog-eared, pages marked with notes about Wat Phra That Doi Suthep.
I grabbed it, running a finger over the golden spire on the cover. It felt like a promise.
"Hey, this book's how we'll find all the cool spots," I said, shoving it on top of the manga. "You'll beg me to read it when we're lost."
Mia stuck her tongue out, but her lips twitched into a smile.
She pulled a crumpled notebook from her pocket—her "Thai Food Bucket List"—and flipped it open. I caught a glimpse: "1. Mango sticky rice (EXTRA coconut) 2. Street stall egg tarts 3. Satay with peanut sauce."
Mom's voice cut through the chaos: "Kids! Your dad's fighting with the rice cooker again!"
We raced to the living room. Dad was on his knees, shoving the rice cooker into a too-small box, his brow furrowed.
Mom stood beside him, holding a stack of chipped mugs—ones we'd had since I was six, each with a faded cartoon.
"Told you we need a bigger box," Mom said, grinning as she tapped a mug's chip.
Dad huffed. "It'll fit. Just… needs a little push." He jammed it harder, and the box creaked.
Mia and I exchanged a look, then knelt to help.
"I'll get the big box from the hallway," I said, pulling the rice cooker free before the cardboard split.
Dad sighed, giving in. "Fine. But if this thing gets lost, no more homemade onigiri for you two."
Mia gasped. "You wouldn't! That's my favorite snack!"
Mom laughed, setting a mug down. It was blue, with a tiny cat on it—my old one. I'd dropped it when I was eight, and the rim chipped.
"Remember when Jax broke this?" Mom said, her thumb brushing the chip. "He cried like I'd asked him to give up manga."
My face heated up. "I was eight! And it was my favorite mug!"
"Wasn't yours for long," Mia said. "You forgot it in the kitchen, and I stole it."
I nudged her shoulder. "You still have it under your bed!"
The doorbell rang, and Mom checked her phone. "That's Mrs. Tanaka. She said she'd drop by before we leave."
I opened the door, and the smell of matcha cookies hit me—warm, sweet, like every New Year's Eve at her place.
Mrs. Tanaka stood there, gray hair in a bun, holding a tin of her famous cookies. In her other hand, a small potted lavender plant.
"Snacks for the plane," she said, handing the tin to Mia, her fingers brushing Mia's wrist.
"And this… for your new home."
She held out the lavender. Its leaves were soft, and it smelled like her hallway—the same scent that had drifted through our walls for years.
Mom took it, her voice quiet. "Yuki, this is perfect. Thank you."
She held the plant gently, her fingers lingering on the lavender leaves.
Mrs. Tanaka smiled, glancing around the apartment. Boxes stacked by the door, empty shelves, the couch pushed against the wall.
"Strange to see it like this. You moved in when Jax was just a toddler. He'd follow me around, begging for cookies."
I scratched my neck. "I still beg for them."
She laughed, patting my arm. "Promise you'll send photos? Of the temples, the mangoes… this little plant, if it lives."
"We will," Mia said, hugging her waist. "And I'll bring you a pink silk scarf—with elephants! The best one in Chiang Mai!"
Mrs. Tanaka squeezed her back, her eyes soft. "I'll be waiting. Now go—don't miss your flight. Safe travels, all of you."
We waved until her door closed. The apartment felt quieter after that.
Mom set the lavender on the windowsill, where sunlight spilled over its leaves.
"Last push," Dad said, clapping his hands. "Taxi's here in 40 minutes. Let's get these boxes by the door."
Mia and I hauled our boxes to the entrance. Hers was lighter, but she still grunted, staggering under it.
I reached out to steady her, and she rolled her eyes—though she didn't pull away.
"Careful," I said. "You don't wanna squish Mr. Trunk."
"Shut up," she mumbled, but her lips twitched.
We stacked our boxes next to Dad's golf bag and Mom's bubble-wrapped herb pots.
Mom was folding the last of our blankets—blue, star-patterned, the one I'd slept with until I was twelve. She handed it to me.
"Put this in your carry-on," she said. "Planes get cold."
I folded it carefully. It smelled like our laundry detergent, like Sunday mornings and rainy afternoons. Like home.
Mia plopped down on the floor, flipping through her food notebook. "When we get to Chiang Mai, first stop: mango sticky rice. Then we'll find the night market. Then—"
"Whoa, slow down," Dad said, laughing. "We gotta find a house first. Sleep. Unpack."
"But mango sticky rice waits for no one," she protested.
Mom shook her head, but she was smiling. "We'll eat sticky rice. I promise. But let's say goodbye to this place first."
I stood in the middle of the empty living room. The carpet had a faint grape juice stain from when Mia spilled her drink last summer.
The wall by the door had tiny pencil marks—our height charts, year after year, until we outgrew them.
Mia stood beside me, shoulder to shoulder. "It looks weird, huh? Empty."
"Kinda," I said. "But… not bad weird. Like a blank page."
She nodded. "Yeah. Blank pages are good. You can draw whatever you want."
Dad checked his phone. "Taxi's ten minutes out. Grab your carry-ons."
I slung my backpack over my shoulder, the star blanket tucked inside.
Mia's backpack bulged with Mr. Trunk and her notebook. Mom picked up the lavender plant, holding it like it was fragile.
We walked to the door. I paused, glancing back. The apartment didn't feel like ours anymore—not really.
But the memories did—stuck to the walls, the floor, the air we'd breathed for fifteen years.
Mia tugged my arm. "C'mon. The taxi's gonna leave. And I'm starving."
I laughed, following her out. Mom locked the door, and the key turned with a soft click.
The hallway smelled like Mrs. Tanaka's lavender. We walked down the stairs, our shoes thudding against the steps.
Outside, cherry blossom petals swirled in the breeze, sticking to Mia's hair.
The taxi was waiting at the curb, its engine humming. Dad loaded the first box.
Mom set the lavender plant carefully on the seat. Mia and I climbed in the back, our knees bumping.
As the taxi pulled away, I pressed my face to the window. Our apartment building shrank, then disappeared around the corner.
Mia leaned over, whispering. "Hey. You think the new house has a yard? For a dog?"
I shrugged, but I was smiling. "Maybe. But if you ask for a dog and an elephant, Mom's gonna lose it."
She giggled, shoving my shoulder. "I'm not asking for an elephant. Yet."
Dad glanced at us in the rearview mirror. "You two gonna bicker the whole way to the airport?"
"Probably," I said.
"Definitely," Mia agreed.
Mom laughed, brushing a petal from Mia's hair. "Good. Some things shouldn't change."
Tokyo slipped by—familiar convenience stores, the park where we flew kites, the café with the matcha lattes we loved.
But for the first time, I didn't feel sad watching it go.
Because ahead of us was a plane. A city with golden temples and sticky rice. A new bed, a new yard, maybe even a dog.
A new life.
I pulled the star blanket out of my backpack, wrapping it around both me and Mia. It smelled like home.
But home wasn't the apartment anymore. It was Mom's laugh. Dad's bad jokes. Mia's stupid doodles.
The lavender plant on Mom's lap, the matcha cookies in the tin, the Thai history book in my bag.
Home was us. And we were going to Chiang Mai.
The taxi turned the corner, petals spinning in the air like pink confetti.
And somewhere past the clouds—Chiang Mai waited.