Whispers Of The Past

Chapter 9 The Space The Stars

Threads of Light

The first time Malliah held her published book in her hands, she didn’t cry. She didn’t laugh. She simply sat in silence, letting the weight of it settle into her palms. It was heavier than she expected—not just on paper, but in meaning. Letters to the Future wasn’t just a manuscript. It was a map of her becoming.

She placed the book on her desk, beside her journal, and stared at it for a long time. The cover was soft, textured like watercolor paper, with a sketch of a mango tree under a constellation of stars. Her name was printed in a quiet serif font. Not bold. Not loud. Just present.

That was enough.

Lianne came home from university that weekend, her energy buzzing with stories, deadlines, and the kind of exhaustion that only young adulthood could carry. She spotted the book immediately.

“You got it!” she said, picking it up and flipping through the pages. “It’s beautiful, Mom.”

Malliah smiled. “It feels strange. Like I’ve put pieces of myself into something I can’t take back.”

Lianne sat beside her. “That’s the point, isn’t it? To leave something behind?”

Malliah nodded. “I just hope it’s enough.”

Lianne looked at her, eyes soft. “You’ve always been enough.”

That evening, they sat on the porch, the stars blinking overhead, the mango tree casting long shadows across the garden.

“Do you ever think about legacy?” Lianne asked.

Malliah considered the question. “I used to think legacy was something grand. Something loud. But now I think it’s quieter. It’s the way your words linger. The way your love echoes. The way your choices ripple outward.”

Lianne leaned her head on her mother’s shoulder. “I think your legacy is me.”

Malliah blinked back tears. “Then I’ve done something right.”

Echoes and Anchors

The first time Malliah held her published book in her hands, she didn’t cry. She didn’t laugh. She simply sat in silence, letting the weight of it settle into her palms. It was heavier than she expected—not just in paper, but in meaning. Letters to the Future wasn’t just a manuscript. It was a map of her becoming.

She placed the book on her desk, beside her journal, and stared at it for a long time. The cover was soft, textured like watercolor paper, with a sketch of a mango tree under a constellation of stars. Her name was printed in a quiet serif font. Not bold. Not loud. Just present.

That was enough.

Later that afternoon, she walked out to the garden and sat beneath the mango tree—the same tree that had shaded her through childhood, heartbreak, and healing. She opened the book and flipped to the dedication page.

To the quiet ones. You are not invisible. You are the space between stars— full of gravity, full of light.

She closed the book and leaned her head back against the trunk. The breeze rustled the leaves above her, and for a moment, she felt the past and present folding into each other.

Lianne came home from university that weekend, her energy buzzing with stories, deadlines, and the kind of exhaustion that only young adulthood could carry. She spotted the book immediately.

“You got it!” she said, picking it up and flipping through the pages. “It’s beautiful, Mom.”

Malliah smiled. “It feels strange. Like I’ve put pieces of myself into something I can’t take back.”

Lianne sat beside her. “That’s the point, isn’t it? To leave something behind?”

Malliah nodded. “I just hope it’s enough.”

Lianne looked at her, eyes soft. “You’ve always been enough.”

That evening, they sat on the porch, the stars blinking overhead, the mango tree casting long shadows across the garden.

“Do you ever think about legacy?” Lianne asked.

Malliah considered the question. “I used to think legacy was something grand. Something loud. But now I think it’s quieter. It’s the way your words linger. The way your love echoes. The way your choices ripple outward.”

Lianne leaned her head on her mother’s shoulder. “I think your legacy is me.”

Malliah blinked back tears. “Then I’ve done something right.”

The morning after the book launch, Malliah woke to a soft knock on her door. Lianne stood there, holding a small box wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine.

“This came for you,” she said. “No return address.”

Malliah took the box and sat on the edge of her bed. Inside was a stack of letters—some typed, some handwritten, some folded with care. She pulled out the first one.

Dear Malliah, I read your book in one sitting. I cried. I laughed. I felt seen. I’ve never written anything before, but your words made me want to try. Thank you for permitting me. —A Quiet Reader

She read another.

I gave your book to my daughter. She’s thirteen. She’s shy. She’s brilliant. She thinks she’s invisible. She read your chapter about the mango tree and said, “I think I’m like her.” Thank you for helping her see herself. —A Grateful Mother

And another.

I used to think silence was weakness. Your book taught me that silence can be strength. I’m learning to listen to my own quiet now. It’s louder than I thought. —A Former Skeptic

Malliah placed the letters on her desk, heart full. She hadn’t expected this. She hadn’t written for applause. She’d written to survive. To understand. To connect.

And now, her words were echoing.

Later that day, she and Lianne walked through the town plaza, the sun warm on their backs, the scent of pan de sal drifting from a nearby bakery.

“Do you think you’ll write another book?” Lianne asked.

Malliah smiled. “I think I already have. It’s just scattered across journals and napkins and half-finished drafts.”

“You should,” Lianne said. “People need your voice.”

Malliah looked at her daughter, now taller, stronger, and more confident than she’d ever imagined. “You’re my voice too.”

Lianne blushed. “I’m just your echo.”

“No,” Malliah said. “You’re my continuation.”

That evening, Malliah sat beneath the mango tree with her journal open. She wrote:

Legacy isn’t what we leave behind. It’s what we live through others. It’s the stories they carry. The truths they inherit. The courage they borrow. I see my legacy in Lianne’s eyes. In her questions. In her voice.

She paused, then added:

And I see it in the letters. In the readers. In the quiet ones, who are learning to speak.

It started with fatigue.

Not the kind that came from long days or sleepless nights, but the kind that settled deep in her bones. Malliah brushed it off at first—she was busy, after all. Between mentoring, writing, and speaking engagements, she barely had time to notice the way her body had begun to slow.

But one morning, she woke with a tightness in her chest and a dizziness that made the room tilt. Lianne found her sitting on the edge of the bed, pale and breathless.

“Mom,” she said, voice trembling, “we’re going to the hospital.”

Malliah didn’t argue.

The diagnosis was a mild cardiac arrhythmia—manageable, but serious. The doctor prescribed medication, lifestyle changes, and rest. He spoke gently, but firmly.

“You’ve been carrying a lot,” he said. “It’s time to let some of it go.”

Malliah nodded, her mind spinning. She thought of her book, her students, and her daughter. She thought of the mango tree, the letters, the quiet flame she’d spent years tending.

She thought of Joshua.

That evening, she sat with Lianne in the garden, the stars blinking overhead.

“I’m scared,” she admitted.

Lianne took her hand. “Me too.”

“I don’t want to leave things unfinished.”

“You haven’t,” Lianne said. “You’ve written. You’ve loved it. You’ve lived.”

Malliah looked at her daughter, now grown, now strong. “I want to see you become everything you’re meant to be.”

“You will,” Lianne said. “You’re still here.”

Joshua arrived the next morning, carrying a basket of fruit and a look of quiet concern.

“I heard,” he said.

Malliah nodded. “It’s manageable.”

He sat beside her, the silence between them familiar, comforting.

“I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you again,” he said.

“You won’t,” she replied. “Not yet.”

They didn’t speak of the past. They didn’t speak of the future. They simply sat, side by side, beneath the mango tree.

Over the next few weeks, Malliah slowed down. She canceled speaking engagements. She delegated mentorship sessions. She spent more time with Lianne—cooking, reading, walking through the garden. She began writing again, but not for publication. For herself.

She wrote letters.

To Lianne.

To Joshua.

To her younger self.

To the quiet girl who once believed she had nothing worth saying.

One afternoon, she handed Lianne a sealed envelope.

“For someday,” she said.

Lianne held it to her chest. “I’ll keep it safe.”

Malliah smiled. “I know you will.”

The chapter closes with Malliah sitting beneath the mango tree, journal open, pen in hand.

She writes:

Legacy isn’t the book. It isn’t the letters. It isn’t the applause. It’s the space we fill with love. It’s the light we leave behind.

She looks up at the stars.

And she whispers, “I’m still shining.”