A Place To Belong

The village unfolded before us like a hidden treasure, nestled by the shimmering Pyukan Lake. Its waters sparkled under the fading sunlight, their gentle ripples whispering a quiet welcome. This was Pyukan Village—a place etched in my memories from childhood, a sanctuary in more ways than one.

Ko Thaung Myint steered the cart carefully into the yard I had pointed out, the wheels crunching softly against the gravel. As the cart came to a halt, I glanced at Ma Aye Phyu, who was gazing at the modest farmhouse ahead. Her expression was unreadable, but I hoped she felt the same quiet anticipation I did.

We climbed down from the cart, the weight of the journey momentarily lifting. My uncle and his family appeared in the doorway, their faces painted with surprise. Their eyes moved between Ma Aye Phyu and me, questions hanging unspoken in the air.

I took a deep breath, stepping forward to meet my uncle. His familiar presence grounded me, though my heart raced with worry. Would he be angry? Would he embarrass me in front of her?

I leaned closer, speaking in hushed tones, explaining everything. The escape, the uncertainty, the hope that this place could be a haven for us. My words spilled out like a confession, raw and vulnerable.

He listened in silence, his weathered face softening as I spoke. When I finished, he looked at me—not with disappointment, but with understanding.

"Well," he said, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, "if you're going to bring someone special home, you might as well do it right. Come on in, both of you."

Relief washed over me, so overwhelming I nearly staggered. His kindness was more than I'd dared to hope for. It wasn't just a welcome—it was an acceptance of the unspoken bond between Ma Aye Phyu and me.

As I turned back, I saw Ko Thaung Myint untying his horse from the cart, his usual chatter filling the yard.

"Hey there, horse-cart man!" my uncle called out, his voice warm with humor. "If your horse is hungry, check by the shed. There's a sack of pigeon peas and some sesame leaves soaking in water."

Ko Thaung Myint grinned, the lines around his eyes crinkling with amusement. "Uncle, you're too good to me! This old girl deserves it, though. She's been hauling these two lovebirds all day."

His teasing drew a soft laugh from Ma Aye Phyu, her hand lightly brushing mine. My uncle chuckled as well, shaking his head. "Take care of her, then. And when you're done, come inside for a proper meal."

As Ko Thaung Myint led his horse to the shed, my uncle turned back to us. "Don't worry about anything," he said, his voice steady. "You're safe here. You're home."

Once Ko Thaung Myint had eaten and bid us farewell, my uncle led us to a small house nestled at the edge of his property. It was simple—a single-room structure with wooden walls and a thatched roof. Yet there was a charm to it, a warmth that seemed to embrace us the moment we stepped inside.

He began clearing out the space, moving aside bundles of onions and ears of corn stored there. Every movement was deliberate, thoughtful, as if he was preparing not just a place but a new beginning for us.

"This will be yours," he said, pausing to glance at us with a small smile. "Stay here, just the two of you. Take your time, find your peace. Leave the rest to me."

When he opened the windows, sunlight streamed in, bathing the room in a soft, golden glow. The air smelled of fresh earth and distant rain, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still.

It was more than a house—it was a promise. A promise of comfort, of security, of a future that didn't need to be rushed or decided all at once.

I turned to Ma Aye Phyu, who stood quietly, her eyes tracing the simple lines of the room. When her gaze met mine, there was a warmth there that mirrored what I felt in my chest.

This wasn't just a place to stay—it was a place to belong. And for the first time in what felt like forever, I believed we had found it.