PeonyMagazine

  When the house finally goes quiet, and the moon spills through the blinds like a memory, I start thinking about the people I’ve hurt. Not intentionally, not cruelly, just carelessly, like children often do when they don’t yet understand how heavy their hands can be. My sister’s laugh used to annoy me. It was loud and easy, like she didn’t know the world was supposed to be hard. I was the older one, sharper, quicker with words that cut deeper than I ever meant. I used to mock her drawings, hide her toys, and make her cry just to feel in control of something. We grew up and drifted apart, different cities, different lives. But some nights, her face at eight years old visits me again. That small, wounded look that asked what she had done wrong. It eats at me, even now. I think about calling her, telling her I’m sorry for every cruel thing I said, for being a sister who didn’t protect her. Sometimes I imagine her forgiving me. Sometimes I imagine she won’t. But I’ve learned that apol...

  Special Issue – November 2025: Table of Return (Part 1 of 4) When I came home two weeks ago, everything felt both familiar and different. The sound of the gate creaking open, the smell of my mother’s cooking, even the faint noise of a nearby rooster, all the same as before, yet carrying a quiet heaviness I couldn’t name. I stood by the doorway for a moment, just taking it in, the house I grew up in, the one that held every version of who I used to be.  It had been years since I last stayed here for more than a few days. Life had taken each of us in different directions. My sisters and I, once inseparable, now live scattered lives shaped by work, distance, and the changes that come with growing older.  I walked to the dining area, where the light from the window fell softly on our old wooden table. That’s when I saw it, my  chair . Still in the same spot. Still standing like it had been waiting all this time. The edges were a little worn, the color faded, but the mo...