Chapter 59: The Love I Carried in My Brushes
The first thing Anya noticed about Kyoto was how the wind sounded different.
Not louder, not colder—just… older. It moved like it had passed through thousands of doorways, brushed against ancient roofs, lingered in temples, and curled around strangers' shoulders before ever reaching her skin.
She stood outside the studio building on her third morning there, watching people pass by with quiet urgency. Everyone walked with purpose. Everyone knew where to go. Everyone had the kind of rhythm Anya had only ever found in Oriana's presence.
She tightened her scarf.
She didn't feel small.
Just… floating.
Inside the studio, the walls were tall, white, and painfully blank. Each student was given a space—three meters wide, one table, one stool. No one talked during the first hour. Brushes clicked softly. Water cups were refilled. The sound of pencil on canvas echoed like someone whispering their name into a room that didn't know it yet.
Anya dipped her brush in a pale gray wash and hesitated.
In the corner of her desk, she had taped a photo of Oriana—not a posed one. A candid. Taken in the school courtyard just after Oriana had laughed at something—her hand over her mouth, eyes lit from within, the wind catching her hair like the world had paused to admire her too.
Anya looked at that photo often.
Not for comfort.
But for truth.
To remember who she was painting for.
She painted in blues at first.
Different shades for different memories.
Deep cobalt for silence.
Sky blue for the way Oriana said her name.
Slate gray for the moments she'd looked at Oriana and thought, I think I belong to you.
The instructors said her palette was unusual.
One of them asked, "Why so cold?"
Anya smiled softly and answered, "Because I'm carrying something warm."
They didn't ask again.
Kyoto taught her how to be alone.
Not lonely. Just with herself.
She learned the train system, got lost in underground stations that smelled like seaweed and metal. She discovered a tiny bookstore run by an old woman who spoke no English but smiled with her whole body when Anya bowed.
She found a bench near the Philosopher's Path where the sakura trees had just started to bud. And each morning, she sat there, sipping hot yuzu tea, writing one line in her travel notebook:
"Today I'm missing her like breath."
"Today I'm learning how to be strong without being loud."
"Today I saw a cloud that looked like her sleeping."
She sent two letters that week.
One with a pressed sakura bud taped inside.
One with a sketch of Oriana's hand drawn from memory.
Each envelope sealed with care. Each word chosen like it might carry a piece of her soul across the ocean.
The loneliness hit her on the twelfth night.
Not because of anything big.
She had finished dinner—cold soba, pickled plum, green tea—and gone to the rooftop of her dorm. She looked out over the tiled roofs, the soft orange glow of the city. She should have felt full. Complete. Grateful.
Instead, she turned to say something—something simple like "Look at that cloud"—and no one was there.
Just the air.
Just herself.
Just the absence that hung between stars.
Anya sat down on the edge of the roof, pulled out her phone, and opened Oriana's last journal entry.
"Day 14: I saw someone today who looked like you from the back. I almost called out. But when she turned, it wasn't you. Still, for a moment, my heart raced like it used to when I'd find you in a crowd. I miss your walk—the way it never hurried, even when the world did."
She closed her eyes.
And whispered to no one, "I'm still walking. Just slower now."
Art was different here.
It demanded more.
More stillness. More courage. More honesty.
Anya began to paint with her fingers.
She began to mix colors without labels.
She painted silence. And grief. And memory.
She painted Oriana's name without writing it.
One afternoon, her instructor stood behind her and watched as she layered soft lines over a wash of gold and ash.
"Who is she?" he asked, quietly.
Anya didn't look up. "Someone I left without leaving."
The instructor nodded once. "She's in every stroke."
And Anya smiled.
Because that was exactly the point.
Weeks passed.
Letters came.
From Oriana. Always from Oriana.
Some were long.
Some were barely a paragraph.
All were full of love.
She wrote about a new girl she was tutoring—how she reminded her of Anya when she was younger, always scribbling poetry in her margins.
She wrote about the stars—how she could finally name three constellations and how proud Anya would be.
She wrote about missing her—not as a wound, but as a thread. One that tugged gently whenever the wind shifted.
Anya read each letter until the ink smudged from her fingertips.
Then she wrote back.
She told Oriana about her classmates.
About the woman at the bakery who now added extra sesame buns when Anya came in.
About the way the rain here sounded like whispers.
And one night—after a dream where she woke crying—she wrote only one sentence:
"Come find me in the light of the lanterns when this is done."
She didn't explain it.
She didn't need to.
She knew Oriana would understand.
The semester reached its midpoint.
And with it came the exhibit.
Each student was asked to create three pieces that defined their time in Kyoto.
Some painted landscapes.
Others painted city scenes.
Anya painted Oriana.
But not her face.
Not her body.
She painted what Oriana felt like—
—A doorway lit from within.
—A shadow lying next to yours even when no one else could see it.
—A hand reaching through time.
The instructors stood in silence in front of her work.
One said, "It feels like absence."
The other said, "No. It feels like return."
And Anya smiled.
Because love could be both.
On the night of the exhibition, Anya stood in a borrowed dress with ink still on her fingers. The gallery was full of soft music and slow footsteps. People leaned in close to read the titles. One woman touched her arm and whispered, "I don't know her, but I miss her too."
Anya nodded. "That means I did it right."
After the show, she returned to her dorm.
The hallway was quiet.
The lights low.
On her desk sat a fresh letter.
From Oriana.
Just three lines:
"I saw the painting you posted. The third one. The one with the gold thread across the dark.
It made me cry.
Because I think I am that thread too."
Anya pressed the letter to her chest.
And for the first time since arriving in Japan, she let herself cry fully.
Not from sorrow.
But from knowing—
—that the love they shared didn't need presence to be true.
It had roots.
It had color.
It had voice.
And no matter how far she traveled, Oriana would always be the season she returned to.