The moving truck's engine coughed to a stop, and Mia's hand was on the door handle before Dad could even sigh.
"First to the best room!" she yelped, yanking the door open. Her sandals thwacked the dirt path—thwap, thwap—like she was racing against an invisible clock.
Lavender was right behind her, tail fluffed into a tiny orange pom-pom. The cat had
Cling Mia since we picked her up at the hotel, like she'd decided Mia was her person.
I climbed out slow, stretching my legs until they popped. The villa sat at the end of the street, quiet enough to hear the crickets already starting up. Its walls were soft green, ivy snaking up the sides like it was trying to hug the wood.
A mango tree stood in the front yard, branches heavy with unripe green fruit. The dirt around its roots was still a little disturbed—where Lavender had dug up the ivory box. My hand drifted to my pocket, where the box sat cold, like it was sucking the warmth from my skin.
Dad groaned, hefting a box labeled "Kitchen Junk (Mia's Mugs)" onto his shoulder. "Remind me why two stories sounded like a good idea? My back's already screaming at me."
Mom laughed, grabbing a canvas bag full of her herb pots—basil, mint, the rosemary she'd refused to leave in Tokyo. "Because you said, 'Ann, we need space for the rice cooker.' Remember? You looked like you'd cry when we thought we'd have to downsize it."
I picked up my manga box, the one I'd scrawled "HANDS OFF—JAX ONLY" on with black marker. The corner was dented from the plane ride, but I'd checked earlier—all my favorite volumes were still intact.
Mia's shout bounced down the stairs. "Jax! Get up here! My room has a window that looks right at the temple!"
I hauled the manga box up the creaky steps. The hallway smelled like sun-warmed wood, and a skylight spilled gold light onto the floor. Mia's door was wide open, and she was already taping elephant stickers to the wall—neon pink, neon green, one that looked like it was wearing a tiny hat.
"Look!" she said, pointing to the window. Through the glass, the temple spire glowed in the afternoon sun—sharp, golden, like it was piercing the sky.
My throat went tight. The same spire from my dream. The same one painted on the KFC wall.
Lavender jumped onto the windowsill, ears pricked forward. She stared at the spire, tail twitching so fast it looked like a blur. Like she could hear something we couldn't.
"I'm hanging my lantern here," Mia said, holding up the pink elephant lantern we'd bought at the market. She'd refused to let anyone else carry it, even when her arm got tired. "And Mr. Trunk gets the pillow by the door." She plopped her stuffed elephant—worn, one ear slightly lopsided—on the bed, patting its head like it was a real pet.
She turned to me, grinning. "Your room's next door. Go check—bet it's boring compared to mine. No temple view, no stickers, nothing."
My room was smaller, but it had two windows. One faced the mango tree, the other looked out at green fields that stretched all the way to the mountains. No temple, but the quiet felt nice—quieter than our old Tokyo apartment, where you could always hear the trains.
I set the manga box on the desk, then pulled out the ivory box. It was still sealed tight—no cracks, no lock, just smooth ivory carved with lotus petals. I ran my finger over the carvings, and the box felt colder, like it was reacting to my touch.
Lavender wandered in, rubbing her head against my leg. She jumped onto the desk, pawing at the ivory box like it had treats hidden inside.
"Stop that," I said, pushing her gently with my finger. She meowed, loud and insistent, and stared at the box like it was keeping a secret from her.
Mom's voice called up the stairs. "Lunch time! Peanut butter sandwiches—no crusts, just how Mia likes it. And mango slices, if you're hungry."
We trooped downstairs. The patio table was covered in paper plates, and Mom had set out a bowl of fresh mango slices—sweet, juicy, the kind that drips down your chin. Lavender curled up on a chair, watching us like she was waiting for someone to drop a piece.
Dad talked about fixing the patio furniture while he ate. "We'll go to the market this weekend, get a hammock. Mia's been begging for one since we left Tokyo."
Mom nodded, spreading mayo on a sandwich. "And I'm planting my herbs by the kitchen window—they'll get morning sun there. The basil's gonna be perfect for pad thai."
Mia stuffed her mouth full of sandwich, crumbs falling onto her shirt. "Can we have a barbecue? With satay? And mango sticky rice for dessert? Please? I'll even help set up!"
Mom wiped crumbs from her chin. "Once we unpack everything. First, we need to find the sheets—your star blanket's still in the trunk of the car, remember?"
After lunch, I helped Dad assemble the living room table. He held the instructions upside down for five minutes, muttering about "stupid Thai-English translations that make no sense."
"Jax, hand me the screwdriver," he said, pointing to a tool on the floor. I passed it to him, and he dropped it twice before getting a good grip.
Mia sat on the floor, sorting through her "Thai Food Bucket List" notebook. She'd added new entries in neon pink pen: "Satay (extra peanut sauce—tell vendor 'mâak kráp')," "Mango porridge (like the hotel had)," "Durian… maybe skip next time. Tastes like garlic clouds."
Lavender curled up on the couch, purring so loud it drowned out Dad's grumbling. Every few minutes, she'd lift her head, ears twitching, like she heard someone knocking at the door. But when I checked, the porch was empty.
The afternoon slipped by fast. By dusk, most of the boxes were unpacked. Mom's herbs sat on the kitchen windowsill, their leaves already perking up. Dad's golf clubs leaned against the wall by the door. My manga were stacked neatly on my desk, in order from favorite to least favorite.
Mia dragged me outside to hang her lantern. We tied it to the mango tree's lowest branch—Mia stood on her tiptoes, I held her steady—and when Dad flipped the switch, it glowed pink. Soft, warm light that painted the yard in pastels.
"Perfect," Mia said, leaning against the tree. She stared up at the lantern, smiling so wide her cheeks dimpled. "This place feels like home. Not hotel home. Real home."
I nodded. It did. No more suitcases on the floor, no more wondering where we'd sleep next, no more eating takeout off plastic plates every night. Just… us. The four of us, plus Lavender, in a house that smelled like sun and jasmine.
But my hand drifted to my pocket again. The ivory box was still cold. The bell from last night, the way Lavender stared at the mango tree, the temple spire that seemed to follow us everywhere—this villa wasn't just a house. It was a puzzle. A piece of something bigger.
Lavender wandered over, sitting at the base of the mango tree. She pawed at the dirt, like she wanted to dig again. I knelt down, brushing my hand over the spot where she'd found the box. The dirt was still soft, a faint indent left behind, like the box had been there a long time.
Dad called us inside. "Dinner's ready! Pad thai—spicy, just how Jax likes it. And extra noodles, since Mia's gonna steal yours."
Mia sprinted to the door, sandals thwacking, but I lingered. The wind picked up, carrying the smell of jasmine from the neighbor's yard. And under that, something else—incense, faint but sharp, like the kind they burn at temples.
Then I heard it.
Dong.
A bell. Slow. Clear. Like it was right there in the yard, not far away.
Lavender hissed, jumping onto my lap. I held her close, feeling her heartbeat race against mine. Her fur stood up, like she was scared.
The bell didn't ring again. But the air felt thick, like someone was standing behind me, watching. I turned around—nothing. Just the empty yard, the glowing lantern, the mango tree swaying in the wind.
I stood up, tucking the ivory box deeper into my pocket. Mia's lantern glowed in the dark, casting pink light over the grass. The mango tree's leaves rustled, like they were whispering something.
This villa was our sanctuary. Quiet. Safe. Ours.
But it was also holding secrets. The ivory box. The bell that only rang at night. The temple spire that never seemed to be far. The way Lavender acted like she knew something we didn't.
I walked inside, Lavender still in my arms. Mom had set the table with paper plates, and the pad thai steamed in a big metal bowl—red, spicy, just like I'd asked for. The smell made my stomach growl.
Dad smiled, handing me a fork. "Took you long enough. Mia was about to grab your noodles and run. Said you were 'being weird outside.'"
Mia stuck her tongue out at me, but she pushed a extra heap of pad thai onto my plate. "I wasn't gonna steal all of it. Just… most of it."
I sat down, the ivory box pressing against my thigh. Lavender curled up on my feet, purring loud enough to cover the quiet hum of the ceiling fan. Mom passed me a glass of iced tea, and Dad told a story about how he'd burned the pad thai twice before getting it right.
Outside, the lantern glowed. The mango tree stood still. The temple spire waited, far away but never gone.
This was home now. Our new sanctuary.
But I knew—something was coming. Something that would turn this quiet villa upside down. Something tied to the box in my pocket, the bell in the yard, the spire in the distance. Something that had been waiting for us, ever since we stepped off that plane.
I took a bite of pad thai. Spicy. Sweet. Perfect.
Whatever it was, we'd face it together.
In our new home.