Mira stepped into her grandmother’s house and was immediately wrapped in the scent of garlic, citrus, and something deeper—like old stories simmering on the stove. The curtains were linen, sun-bleached and soft, and the floor creaked in the same places it had when she was a child. The walls were lined with photographs, some crooked, some faded, all stubbornly preserved.
Lola Amalia stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes sharp with affection. “You came,” she said, as if Mira had never left.
“I missed your cooking,” Mira replied, setting her suitcase down and hugging her tightly.
Lola snorted. “You missed the stories. The food is just bait.”
They moved through the house like two maps layered together—one of memory, one of change. Mira noticed the new photo frames, the missing armchair, the way the garden had grown wild in her absence. But the heart of the house was unchanged. It still felt like a place where promises could be kept.
The birthday party was scheduled for the weekend, but preparations had already begun. Neighbors dropped by with trays of empanadas and bottles of calamansi juice. Children rehearsed songs in the backyard, their voices rising like birds. Mira helped string lanterns across the porch, her fingers nimble from years of classroom crafts.
Inside, Lola sorted through old albums, pulling out photos for a memory wall. “We’ll hang these by the mural,” she said. “Let people see what time does.”
Mira paused at one photo—two children beneath a painted star, fists pressed together, eyes bright with belief. Her breath caught.
“You remember him?” Lola asked, not looking up.
Mira nodded. “Alden Reyes.”
“He never left,” Lola said. “Still draws. Still quiet. Still carries something he won’t name.”
Mira didn’t reply. She traced the edges of the photo and felt the weight of years settle in her chest.
Later that afternoon, Mira wandered into the garden. The soil was rich, the air thick with the scent of lemongrass and basil. She crouched beside the old ceramic pot she’d brought from the city and began to replant the herbs she’d carried with her—rosemary, mint, a stubborn sprig of lavender.
She worked slowly, letting the rhythm of the task settle her nerves. Her thoughts drifted to Alden. She hadn’t seen him yet, but the mural had already stirred something in her. A memory. A promise. A question she hadn’t dared ask.
Would he remember?
Would he still be the boy who sketched stars into the margins of his notebooks?
Would he still be hers, in some quiet, unspoken way?
That evening, the house filled with voices. Lola’s friends arrived early, bearing gifts wrapped in recycled paper and stories wrapped in laughter. Mira helped set the table, placing bowls of pancit and platters of lumpia with careful hands.
The conversation bloomed into polished nostalgia. Someone mentioned Alden Reyes—the illustrator who never quite left town, the man whose drawings looked like secrets.
Mira’s heart stuttered.
“He’s been sketching the mural again,” one neighbor said. “Saw him just yesterday. Looked like he was waiting for something.”
Mira smiled politely, but her fingers tightened around the serving spoon. She excused herself and stepped outside, the night air cool against her skin.
She walked to the square alone, the lanterns swaying gently overhead. The mural stood quiet, the painted star catching the light like a memory. Mira reached out and traced the edge with her fingertip. The paint was chipped, the texture rough. But it was still there. Still waiting.
She closed her eyes and let the memory rise.
Two children. One summer. A promise.
“If we ever get lost, we’ll find our way back to each other.”
She hadn’t believed it then. Not fully. But Alden had. He’d looked at her like the world made sense when they were together.
She whispered his name.
“Alden.”
And somewhere nearby, a sketchbook closed softly, as if answering.
Next up on chapter 6: They meet again—by accident, by design, and by the pull of a promise that never faded.
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