The letter arrived one ordinary morning, when the sky over Rome was that dull gray that promises nothing. Miles found it folded under the door, between a supermarket flyer and an electricity bill. The envelope was made of a slightly rough, creamy-yellow paper, with the corners slightly folded. There was no return address, only his name written by hand.

Miles

No “Mr. Miles”, no last names, no initials.

Only “Thousands”.

She recognized the handwriting before opening it. She stood for a few seconds in the hallway, the still-warm cup of coffee in one hand and the envelope in the other. She could feel the pulse in her fingertips. That kind of recognition that doesn't come from memory, but from the body.

She opened it carefully, as if the paper might be damaged.

Inside, a sheet of paper folded in three, with the same handwriting. The ink, a little shaky.

Milo,

I'm tired.
Breathing has become short and the days, very long.
Doctors say things I no longer need to hear.

I only know that my time is running out and I would like to see you one more time before I return to my ancestors.

If you can come, come soon.

With love,
Mae Sopha

The cup trembled in her hand. She placed the coffee on the hallway table without looking to see if she'd spilled anything. She read the letter once, twice, three times. The word "ancestors" stuck in her throat.

He hadn't thought about her in months. Or rather, he'd forced himself not to think about her too much. Mae Sopha was a sealed compartment in his memory: a drawer that only opens when one is ready to hear what comes out.

"Is something wrong?" Betsy's voice came from the kitchen, half asleep.

Miles took a while to respond.

—It's… a letter.

"Whose?" she asked, appearing in the doorway with Il Corriere della Sera. "You look like you've seen a ghost.".

Miles held up the sheet of paper without taking his eyes off it.

—From the woman who raised me.

—Your mother?

He shook his head.

—No. The woman who took care of me in my childhood, my grandpa.

Betsy read the letter over her shoulder. She didn't ask any questions. It was one of the things he liked most about her, that way of not intruding, but of staying close.

-Where you live?

—In Cambodia. Near Battambang.

A heavy silence fell between them.

"Are you going?" Betsy asked.

Miles didn't answer right away. He remembered Mae Sopha's hands washing rice, the scent of coconut soap, her voice teaching him words that were almost impossible to pronounce.

"I have to go," he murmured.

Betsy nodded.

—I'm going with you.

He looked at her, surprised.

—You don't have to.

"I'm not going to leave you alone in this," she said. "Let's go.".

Rome–Doha. Doha–Bangkok. Bangkok–Siem Reap. Airports without identity, lukewarm cafes, the dry crackle of loudspeakers.

Betsy watched Miles with a mixture of tenderness and concern. He wasn't restless, he was thoughtful. As if each climb unraveled something that had been haunting him for years.

"Do you remember your first day in Cambodia?" she asked.

"I remember scents," she said. "Damp earth, cooked rice, wood smoke... and Mae Sopha. She always smelled of ginger and coconut soap.".

As they left Siem Reap airport, the heat greeted them like a gentle slap. A thin man, Dara, led them along dirt roads to a village of wooden houses on stilts, scattered chickens, and barefoot children.

"It's here," he said.

The door opened and Mae Sopha appeared. Small, fragile, but with eyes that held more years than wrinkles.

—Milo—she whispered, recognizing him instantly.

He leaned down so she could touch his face. His fingers, bony but firm, stopped where they always did, on the line between his eyebrow and temple.

"You're still serious," she gently chided him. "Always so serious. Even as a child, you found it hard to play.".

Miles smiled sadly.

She looked at Betsy.

—Ah —said the old woman—. You really want it.

Betsy lowered her gaze, intimidated by the precision of the phrase.

—Come in. The house is poor, but it still knows how to welcome.

Inside, it smelled of tea, camphor, and old wood. In one corner, a small altar with burnt-out candles and withered flowers.

They spent the day listening to her. She told stories Miles had forgotten, or remembered differently. Every time he fell silent, Mae Sopha filled the gap with a simple memory, as if her ultimate task were to make him a child again for a moment.

"You didn't cry," she told him. "You kept your tears inside"—she touched her chest—"You were afraid of bothering anyone.".

Miles looked away. Betsy felt a soft punch in her stomach. No one had ever said that so clearly.

"Are you going to stay until the sun comes up?" the old woman asked.

—Yes —he replied.

—I want to see the light one last time in Angkor. Can you take me?

—I'll take you.

They left at night, under a sky full of stars. The road seemed to breathe them in. Mae Sopha gazed out the window, as if she heard ancient voices in the wind.

Upon reaching the ponds in front of Angkor Wat, they saw the monks walking barefoot. Some travelers murmured, as if afraid of disturbing something sacred.

Miles helped Mae Sopha sit down. Betsy stayed by her side.

The sky slowly changed: blue; violet; pink. The temples emerged like drawings that the dawn was revealing.

Mae Sopha smiled.

—I used to bring you here as a child. You would cry when the sun came up… because you understood something you couldn't explain.

"What?" Miles asked.

"The light always returns," she said. "Even if you don't look for it. Even if you hide. The light always returns.".

He took Miles' hand, then Betsy's, and put them together.

"Don't be afraid that someone will love you," he told her. "Your silence no longer protects you. Sometimes, it only imprisons you.".

Miles closed his eyes. The phrase struck a part of him that hadn't been touched in years.

The sun rose. Mae Sopha exhaled very slowly, like someone letting go of an ancient secret. There was no drama. Only immense serenity.

Betsy put her hand on Miles' shoulder. He didn't move.

The first light set the water of the pond ablaze. It reflected temples, palm trees, and the beginning of something that neither of them yet knew where it would lead them.

Mae Sopha left with the same gentleness with which she had cared for the child Miles once was.

And the dawn, true to its promise, returned.