CHRISTIANNA

8. The Things that Stays.

Chapter Eight: The Things That Stay

The first thing Rebecca noticed about Aruno was the smell. It was a scent that didn’t exist anywhere else — part rain, part earth, part smoke from wood fires that never seemed to go out. The little town sat on the shoulder of a valley, surrounded by green that never quite turned dull, even under the sharp noon sun. The people here said the wind carried stories, and maybe it did. Every time it moved through the market, the colored fabrics lifted like flags of memory.

She stayed in a small hotel on the town’s edge, painted the color of turmeric and surrounded by climbing bougainvillea. From her balcony, she could see the hills rippling in the distance like folded silk. The hotel wasn’t fancy, but it was clean, with floors that always smelled faintly of lemon, and an old receptionist named Asha who hummed while she handed out keys.

Each morning Rebecca dressed in light cotton trousers, comfortable shoes, and a wide straw hat she had bought from a roadside vendor the day she arrived. She carried her camera, her notepad, and an energy that felt new — a kind of restlessness that wasn’t anxious anymore, just alive.

The community itself sat half an hour away, reached by a red dirt road lined with mango trees and tin-roofed homes. Rebecca went there daily. She learned faces before she learned names. There was Miri, who sold handmade pots shaped like animals; Omari, who carved figurines from driftwood; and a group of women who wove baskets while singing in harmonies so natural that Rebecca sometimes forgot to take pictures, afraid to break the rhythm.

The artifact that had brought her here was something called a soul drum — a hollowed log carved with tiny, intricate markings that told a family’s story. Each carving was different; each one, a lifetime. She took photos, recorded notes, and asked questions that led to more questions. Her days stretched longer than she planned, the sun setting while she still scribbled translations in her notebook.

At lunchtime she often joined the villagers, sitting under the shade of a giant tree while they ate spiced rice with roasted vegetables, flatbread, and thick stews made from beans and wild herbs. They teased her gently when she coughed at the pepper, and she laughed until her stomach ached.

“Tomorrow,” she’d tell them, “I’ll be braver.”

They didn’t believe her. But every day she ate a little more, and by the end of her second week, the spice no longer defeated her.

That was the week she met Pete.

He was standing outside one of the workshops, talking to a group of local artisans. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and his hands moved when he spoke, painting pictures in the air. There was something immediately grounded about him, something weathered but kind. When he turned and saw her, his expression softened into a smile that felt like an invitation.

“You’re the woman with the camera,” he said.

She blinked. “That obvious?”

He chuckled. “You walk like someone trying to remember every color at once.”

It became their joke. Every morning, when she arrived at the community, he’d call out, “How’s the color collector today?”

And she’d answer, “Still searching for the right shade.”

He was in his forties, broad-shouldered but gentle in manner. Divorced, with two children who lived with their mother in another city. He taught art workshops in the town on weekdays, and spent weekends running a small gallery that displayed local crafts.

Over time, they shared more than jokes. She’d sit by while he worked, watching his fingers smooth clay or line up carvings. He had the sort of voice that turned explanations into stories, and he spoke of his children — a boy who wanted to be a pilot, a girl who painted with colors too bright for her small canvases.

“You miss them,” Rebecca said one afternoon.

He smiled. “Every day. But you learn to live with the space people leave behind. Sometimes it makes room for new ones.”

She didn’t answer right away. Her camera clicked instead, capturing his profile against the afternoon light.

Back at the hotel, her evenings were slower. She’d upload her photos, jot notes, and call home.

Anne always answered first.

“Mum,” she said one evening, “Uncle Vince doesn’t come around much anymore.”

Rebecca smiled softly at the screen. “He’s probably busy.”

“Marcel says the house feels empty. Samantha’s gone. I think I miss her.”

Rebecca paused. “You will see her again. That’s the thing about good people — they don’t stay gone forever.”

Anne nodded, then added, “Your voice sounds different.”

“Different?”

“Lighter.”

Rebecca laughed. “Maybe I’m just eating better.”

They both knew it was more than that.

Her call with Marcus later that week was warmer but heavier.

“So this Pete,” he said, somewhere between teasing and tension, “you mention him a lot.”

“Because he helps me understand the culture here,” she replied evenly.

“And that’s all?”

“That’s all.”

A silence followed — not accusing, just uncertain.

“Marcus,” she said gently, “I’m not replacing you. I’m remembering me.”

He sighed. “I know. I just… don’t know how to fit into this version of you yet.”

“You don’t have to,” she whispered. “Just wait for me to come home.”

Days turned into weeks. The research deepened. She joined a local cooking class one afternoon, where she learned to roast plantains over coal and make sauce from crushed groundnuts. She nearly burned her sleeve, laughed until tears fell, and wrote in her journal later that the laughter here felt different — “like it starts in the stomach and ends in the heart.”

Pete often joined her at these small discoveries. He introduced her to fruit sellers, explained local proverbs, translated conversations. Sometimes they sat together at the edge of the marketplace, watching children chase goats through the dust.

“You know,” she told him one evening, “I came here to study artifacts. But it’s the people who feel like art.”

He smiled. “Artifacts are made by people. You can’t separate the two.”

It was the kind of reply that stayed with her long after he left.

The change came suddenly.

One evening, she went to the gallery to deliver some photos for the cultural board. Pete was there, but distracted — pacing, muttering, checking his phone. When he saw her, his smile came late.

“You okay?” she asked.

He hesitated. “My ex-wife called. My son’s been struggling in school. I might need to go back for a while.”

Rebecca nodded. “You should.”

“I’m not good at goodbyes,” he said, half-laughing.

“Then don’t say it yet.”

He smiled, but his eyes looked tired.

Later, as they walked out, she noticed a small card pinned by the gallery door — an exhibition announcement printed in soft gold letters on cream paper. The artwork title read: Shared Hands: A Study of Craft and Connection.

At the bottom, she saw Pete’s name.

Beneath it, another — Evelyn Marsh.

Rebecca blinked. For a moment, the air thinned around her. Evelyn. The name wasn’t familiar, but the handwriting was his — she could tell. He had written both their names himself.

She didn’t feel jealousy, exactly. It was something quieter, rounder — a recognition. She had spent weeks imagining Pete as a kind of anchor in this drifting season of her life, a symbol of calm, of everything she thought she had been missing. But standing there, she realized he wasn’t an anchor at all. He was just another traveler, holding on to his own half-built bridges.

A soft ache filled her chest. Not because he’d hidden anything, but because he hadn’t needed to. He was human, like everyone else. Complex, incomplete, tender, and tired.

And for the first time since she’d arrived in Aruno, Rebecca understood that perfection wasn’t something people offered — it was something we projected onto them when we were too afraid to stand on our own. The world was full of people carrying unfinished stories, and he was one of them.

That night, back at her hotel, she sat by the window watching the valley lights fade. Her camera lay unopened on the table.

She thought of Marcus’s voice, the familiar steadiness of it. She thought of Anne’s quiet confidence, of Marcel’s bright laughter. She thought of how, in chasing the world, she had found parts of herself scattered across it — kindness here, courage there, longing everywhere.

She began to pack. Slowly, carefully

When Asha at the front desk saw her the next morning, she asked, “Leaving so soon?”

Rebecca smiled. “I’ve collected enough colors for now.”

And as the bus rolled out of Aruno, she looked back once. The hills shimmered under the rising sun, and she whispered to herself, “No one is perfect, but some places teach you how to love them anyway.”