The sky is streaked in hues of twilight when I return to my grandparents’ house. The village has stilled, the hush of evening settling over the trees and rooftops like a blessing. Even the breeze moves slower now, as if it knows the world needs peace and quiet.

My chest aches with every step, the sting of fresh ink pulsing in time with my heartbeat beneath the cloth. But it’s a good ache.

Their simple house is tucked into the hillside with wide open shutters and the smell of something sweet still lingering in the air. Tinā always says this is where we come when we lose ourselves. And I think she’s right.

I toe off my sandals at the back door and step inside. Tui is seated on the front porch watching the ocean. Nana hums as she moves through the kitchen. She doesn’t ask where I’ve been for so long. She knows.

I ease into the rocking chair beside him, its wooden frame creaking beneath me. We don’t speak at first. Just sit together, letting the rhythmic hush of waves meeting the shore fill the quiet between us.

After a while, Nana joins us, a woven blanket draped around her shoulders despite the heat. She eases into the chair beside me, eyes on the horizon. “What did you mark yourself with this time?”

I swallow hard, eyes still on the sea. “The manumea.”

She’s quiet for a beat, then nods, understanding. “The bird that mates for life.”

“I thought I had as well.” My voice cracks a little, and I hate it.

Tui doesn’t speak often, but when he does, his words are wise. “The manumea is still out there. Searching. Singing. Even alone, it doesn’t stop. Not because it’s desperate—but because it remembers the sound of being found.”

She reaches over and brushes a strand of hair from my forehead, like I’m still five years old. “Pain tells you what mattered. And if it mattered this much, it’s not finished yet.”

That undoes me a little. I allow their words to settle into all the places still raw and open.

“I don’t know how to move forward without her.”

“You don’t have to know right now,” Nana says. “You just have to move. The rest will come.”

We sit together for a while longer in a silence that feels full rather than empty. A breeze rolls off the sea and kisses the wound beneath the cloth. It stings, but I welcome it.

Because pain that has meaning hurts less than pain that has none.

Sydney feels colder when I return. Not the weather, but the air inside this house. The silence I used to drown in doesn’t sting as much—it just hums low, like a sound I’m learning to live with.