Ch24: The Pull
886 Words
The grey city was softer tonight.
Sari noticed it as soon as the dream took her—the edges of the buildings less sharp, the light less harsh. The cold still bit at her skin, but there was something underneath it now. A warmth, distant but present, like the memory of sun on stone.
He was waiting for her.
She walked toward him. The distance shrank, and when she stopped, she was close enough to see the collar of his shirt. White. Simple. Unbuttoned at the throat.
"What does it look like?" he asked.
She blinked. "What?"
"Your home. You said it rains there. The ground steams." He paused. "What does it look like?"
She had never described her village to anyone who hadn't seen it. The words felt strange in her mouth, too small for the thing she was trying to hold.
"Green," she said. "Very green. The rice grows in steps—terraces, they're called. When the sun hits them just right, they look like glass. Like the hills are covered in mirrors."
He was watching her. She could feel his attention, steady and focused.
"At sunrise, the mist sits in the valleys. You can't see the bottom. Just white, rolling like water. And when the sun burns it off, the mountains appear. Blue. Purple. Sometimes pink, if the light is right."
She stopped. She had never said these things out loud before. She had thought them, felt them, carried them in her chest. But she had never spoken them.
"The air smells like rain and earth and something sweet—jasmine, maybe, or frangipani. There's a temple at the edge of the village. It's old. The stone is black with age. In the mornings, you can hear the prayers."
His head tilted slightly. "You make it sound like a painting."
"It's not a painting. It's poor. The roads are cracked. The school leaks when it rains. The children share books because there aren't enough."
"That's not what I asked."
She looked at him. Still no face—just shadows and the shape of his jaw. But his voice was soft. Not gentle, exactly. But soft.
"I asked what it looks like," he said. "Not what it lacks."
She was quiet for a moment.
"It looks like home," she said finally. "That's all. It just looks like home."
He didn't speak. But something in his posture shifted. His shoulders relaxed. His hands, hanging at his sides, uncurled slightly.
"I've never had that," he said.
"Had what?"
"A place that just looks like home."
The grey city flickered at the edges. She felt the dream start to weaken, the way it always did when something important was said.
"Tell me about yours," she said quickly. "Your city. Chicago."
He was quiet for so long she thought he wouldn't answer.
"It's cold," he said. "The lake freezes in winter. The wind comes off the water and cuts through everything. The buildings are tall—taller than anything you've seen, probably. Glass and steel. They reflect the sky."
"What color is the sky?"
"Grey. Most days."
"Like here?"
He paused. "No. Here is different. Here the grey is..." He searched for the word. "Empty. There, it's just weather."
She tried to imagine it. A city of glass and steel, a frozen lake, a grey sky that meant nothing. She couldn't. It was too far from everything she knew.
"Do you like it?" she asked.
"It's where I live."
"That's not what I asked."
She heard him exhale—not quite a laugh, but close.
"No," he said. "I don't like it. But I don't know anywhere else."
The dream flickered again. His shape blurred.
"Stay," she said.
He reached toward her. His hand was close—close enough to touch. She could see the lines on his palm, the way his fingers curved.
"I'll try," he said.
The dream broke.
---
Sari woke with her hand outstretched, reaching for nothing.
The room was dark. The fan spun. The rain had stopped, and the frogs had fallen silent.
She lowered her hand slowly.
*He asked what my home looks like.*
She had told him. She had described the rice terraces and the morning mist and the black stone of the temple. And he had listened.
She reached for her notebook.
*Tonight I told him about the village. The green, the mist, the temple. He asked. No one has ever asked before.*
*He said he's never had a place that feels like home.*
She set down the pen.
*His city is called Chicago. The lake freezes. The buildings are tall. The sky is grey, but not like our grey. Empty grey. Weather grey.*
*He doesn't like it. But he doesn't know anywhere else.*
She closed the notebook and lay back, staring at the ceiling.
*He doesn't have a home.*
The thought stayed with her, heavy and strange.
She closed her eyes and tried to imagine him standing in a grey city that meant nothing, surrounded by glass and steel and cold.
She wanted to show him her village.
She wanted him to see the sun rise over the rice terraces.
She wanted him to know what it felt like to stand somewhere and think *this is mine*.
The dream didn't return.
But his voice stayed with her until morning.
- Writer
