Chapter 2: The Lake That Waited
The road was thin, swallowed by trees and the hush of everything unspoken. The farther they drove, the more the world peeled itself back, revealing the older layers—the wild edges, the dirt paths, the sound of wind that didn't belong to cities.
Anya hadn't been here in ten years.
She sat quietly in the passenger seat of their little rental car, staring out at the passing bamboo and banana trees, hands clenched in her lap. Oriana drove, her fingers steady on the wheel, her eyes glancing over every so often, just to see how Anya was breathing.
"You don't have to say anything," Oriana said gently. "I'm here."
Anya nodded. She didn't trust her voice yet. The silence wasn't cold—it was sacred. Something was stirring inside her, like the dust of a house that hadn't been entered in too long.
They passed a rusted sign carved in hand-painted Thai script: "บ้านน้ำเงียบ"—Silent Water House.
Then the trees opened like curtains, and there it was.
The lake.
Flat as glass, untouched by time.
The dock leaned slightly, still half-broken from a storm Anya remembered but never talked about. The reeds had grown taller. The rocks still sat scattered like forgotten offerings. And the sky hung low, as if it were listening.
Anya got out of the car slowly, her sandals crunching the old gravel path. Oriana followed without speaking, carrying only a sketchbook and a linen cloth she'd brought for sitting.
"Is it like you remembered?" Oriana asked softly.
Anya didn't answer at first. She walked to the edge, knelt down, and dipped her fingers into the water.
Cold.
Then she smiled.
"It's colder now," she whispered. "But it still feels like home."
Oriana laid the cloth out near the reeds, and they sat side by side, legs folded beneath them. For a long while, they said nothing. They listened. A bird called across the water. The trees rustled like a lullaby. And somewhere, deep below, the lake remembered everything.
"I used to come here when my parents fought," Anya said at last. "Sometimes I'd stay past sunset just so I could pretend I didn't hear them."
Oriana turned toward her.
"I had a secret place behind those trees," Anya nodded toward the far side of the lake. "There was a little hollow, hidden in the brush. I kept books there. A blanket. Once, even a birthday cake I brought for myself."
She laughed quietly.
"I must've looked ridiculous. A child hiding from the world, celebrating alone."
Oriana didn't laugh.
She reached out and took Anya's hand. "You looked brave."
Anya's throat closed. "I wasn't."
"You were," Oriana insisted. "You still are."
They sat like that, hand in hand, as a gentle breeze rolled across the water. Oriana leaned her head on Anya's shoulder.
"Tell me what you see," she said.
Anya blinked. "What?"
"When you look at the lake. What do you see right now? Not memory. Not fear. Just now."
Anya stared out across the rippling surface.
"I see something that waited," she said slowly. "Something that never needed to move forward to still exist."
Oriana smiled. "That's what I see in you, too."
They ate cold jasmine rice wrapped in banana leaves, with fried shallots and salted fish Oriana had packed in a little wooden box. The wind picked up, carrying the scent of pine and wet stone.
Anya lay on her back in the grass, eyes half-closed. Oriana was sketching beside her, brow furrowed, pencil dancing lightly across the page.
"You always draw with your whole body," Anya murmured.
Oriana didn't look up. "Because I don't know how to only love with part of myself."
Anya turned her head. "Is that what this is? Love?"
Oriana stopped. Her pencil paused.
She looked down at Anya—messy-haired, cheek to earth, eyes that had seen too many winters and still let spring bloom inside them.
"Yes," Oriana said. "This. All of it."
Anya sat up slowly. "Then draw me."
"I always am."
"No," Anya insisted. "Draw me now. As I am. Don't make it pretty. Don't make it sweet. Just… honest."
Oriana studied her. "Can I ask why?"
"Because I want to see myself the way you do."
Oriana nodded once.
And she began.
Her strokes were different now. Not soft. Not rushed. Intentional. Each line said something Anya had forgotten about herself. The bend of her back, the tension in her fingers, the crease between her brows that meant she was thinking too fast. Oriana didn't erase. She didn't fix. She just saw.
When she was done, she turned the sketchbook toward her.
Anya stared.
The woman on the page wasn't perfect.
She looked tired. She looked unsure.
But she also looked held together by something sacred.
Love. Will. Fire.
"She looks like she survived," Anya whispered.
"She did," Oriana replied.
Anya took the book and held it against her chest. Then she stood, took off her sandals, and walked into the lake.
The cold wrapped around her ankles. Her calves. Her knees.
Oriana stood. "Anya—"
"It's okay," Anya said. "I want to."
She walked in deeper.
When the water reached her waist, she stopped.
She closed her eyes.
And she wept.
Not loudly. Not broken.
She wept like someone who had finally let go of the weight she'd carried for far too long.
The lake received her tears without judgment.
And when she turned back, Oriana was already stepping in.
Fully clothed, Oriana waded through the water until she reached her. They stood together in the middle of the lake—drenched, cold, shaking.
But smiling.
"You're soaked," Anya whispered, laughing through her tears.
"So are you."
Anya took Oriana's face in both hands. "You didn't even hesitate."
"I never do with you."
Then Anya kissed her.
Not like before. Not soft. Not quiet.
But like someone reclaiming a piece of themselves.
And Oriana kissed her back like she'd been waiting five years to meet her here.
They dried off on the cloth, their clothes steaming in the sun. Oriana's hair stuck to her cheeks. Anya traced patterns across her thigh with one finger.
"Can we come back?" Anya asked.
"Every year," Oriana said. "For as long as it takes."
"For what?"
"For the girl who brought herself birthday cake. And the woman who finally forgave her."
Anya leaned her head into Oriana's lap.
The sky above them deepened into rose gold. The lake shimmered with memory and newness.
And the silence between them wasn't heavy anymore.
It was whole.