Chance went down the road to the old family house, the place his grandfather had built, the place where his mother had grown up. The village was deep asleep at this hour with only the occasional barking dog or restless yard-fowl to punctuate the relentless chirp of the tree frogs and crickets. He could look ahead with undying senses and be certain of his welcome, but instead he chose to let the indigo tint slowly leach from his skin with each step closer to his gate. It was the man Yao who lifted the latch on the gate with a light clack and pushed it open. It was with human eyes that he saw that the three steps of the veranda were occupied. Paama was sitting there, her form relaxed and unworried, propping her chin sleepily on her fist.

She looked up as he approached and shifted aside so he could pass, but instead he sat beside her and gazed up at the stars shining in the spaces between the leaves of the trees. The details of what had happened at midnight and beyond were already beginning to fade and blur, but he kept the emotions: relief, gratitude, and a strong appreciation for his family.

“I love you, Maa,” he said.

Unexpectedly, Paama laughed. “What does love feel like to you?” she wondered.

Yao sighed, but he was smiling too. “This will be hard to explain.”

“You can tell me anything,” she reminded him.

He eyed her in the dim light. Her face, as always, gave nothing away. “Very well. I can feel the spaces where the threads will go, the threads that will weave your life and mine together. If I haven’t lived it yet, it feels like a lack, as if I’m missing something very important, missing someone who’s very close. Every encounter we have takes away the space that makes me miss you and replaces it with a cord that links me to you and you to me. Loving you when I haven’t yet lived our times together feels yearning and unfinished. Loving you with all our moments accomplished feels sweet, strong, and complete.”

“When you put it like that,” said Paama, her eyes shining with tears and pride, “why would anyone fear death?”

“Certainly not I, Mother,” he whispered fondly, nudging her shoulder with his.

She sighed as she patted him on the arm. “I was worried about you. I should have known better. Now go to bed. It’s late.”

He squeezed a quick hug around her shoulders, got up, and went inside. Just past the threshold he paused, shook his head, and laughed a little at his own forgetfulness. He spoke over his shoulder.

“We’ll talk in the morning, Maa. I have a journey in mind for you. The last thread has been woven, and it’s time you met Miranda.”