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Chapter 2 - Chapter 2: Golden Spurs and Fading Shadows

The heat hung thick over the campus as Ekan packed away his charcoal sticks and sketchbook. In Professor Jirasak's studio, sunlight slanted through high windows, illuminating specks of dust drifting above easels. Supitcha and Arun exchanged enthusiastic critiques while Ekan traced the final shadow beneath the temple's gilded spire. Each line felt alive under his fingers, as though he were breathing spirit back into centuries-old ironwork. When the professor stepped by and murmured, "You've captured its soul," Ekan's chest swelled with pride—and a strange prickle at the base of his neck, as if someone had just whispered a warning.

He slung his satchel over one shoulder and crossed the quad, the midday sun bouncing off tiled roofs and polished marble steps. Monks in saffron robes passed in single file, heads bowed in silent rhythm. A hawker called out spicy papaya salad and cold coconut juice from behind a cluster of mango trees. Ekan purchased a drink, the ice clinking against the green glass bottle like silver bells. He stood under the shade of a frangipani, sipping, and thumbed open the campus map on his phone: he had exactly forty minutes to reach the skytrain station, catch the 4:07 PM train, and meet Niran under the neon arch of Yaowarat Road.

By the time he reached the elevated platform, the city had shifted into a new tempo—the hum of electric rails, the rumble of engines, the murmur of passengers scrolling through their phones. He boarded at Door 3 and found a narrow window seat. Through the glass, the skyline moved in time-lapse: the Chao Phraya River winding past golden temples, the sprawl of low-rise apartments giving way to glass towers. Ekan rested his forehead against cool plexiglass, breathing in the mingled scents of jasmine incense from the open-window apartments and hot metal from the train's undercarriage. Somewhere below, a street vendor shouted, "Fresh mango sticky rice!" and Ekan smiled, imagining the sweet rice he'd eaten that morning.

He disembarked at Hua Lamphong station and walked the last ten minutes through alleys lined with red lanterns and neon kanji signs. The buzz of Chinatown greeted him: squeals of woks, men bent over steaming baskets of dim sum, and jewelers polishing gold bracelets in mahogany cases. Niran stood beneath a flickering replica dragon, arms folded, grinning so wide Ekan thought his face might split. The moment their eyes met, Ekan felt the day's tension melt away. Niran held out his hand, and Ekan slipped his fingers into those warm, familiar lines.

They ducked into a street stall where the chef's spatula clanged against a iron skillet, tossing strands of noodles into aromatic broth. Scallions and chili flakes floated atop, the steam curling around wooden tables. Niran ordered two bowls of hand-pulled noodles with river prawns, while Ekan treated them to grilled pork skewers glazed with sweet tamarind sauce. As they ate, their elbows brushed, igniting a spark that felt like home. They spoke in soft Teochew and Thai, weaving childhood memories with dreams of sketching together in Hangzhou's ancient lanes. Niran reached across the table and brushed a stray noodle off Ekan's lip. "One day," he said, "we'll sit by West Lake, watching lotus blossoms." Ekan nodded, heart full.

After dinner, they strolled down a narrower lane where an elderly woman with silver hair gestured from behind a scarlet tapestry. A sign overhead read "Fortune Readings" in faded gold letters. Niran raised an eyebrow. "Shall we?" Ekan laughed, but agreed when he saw the woman's lined face glow beneath dangling lantern light. They crouched on low stools as she scattered fragmented shells onto a lacquered tray. Candlelight danced in her dark eyes while she interpreted the patterns: the crack where a shell broke meant prosperity delayed; two intersecting lines foretold a crossroads; a cluster of small fragments whispered of unseen dangers.

"You are bound to your shadow," she told Ekan, voice hushed. "Guard it closely. When the candle flame burns backward, your shadow may slip away." Ekan's smile faltered. Niran snorted, ruffling Ekan's hair. "Sounds dramatic." Ekan watched the woman tuck a small slip of yellow paper into his palm. The script looked ancient, curling like smoke. He folded it into his pocket, trying to dismiss the chill darting through his spine.

Outside the tent, the lanterns now glowed like terrestrial constellations. They bought a krathong—a banana leaf boat intricately folded around marigold petals, incense sticks, and a single white candle—and crossed the street to the riverbank. The Chao Phraya at twilight was an expanse of rippling ink reflecting string lights. They lit the candle, offered a silent prayer to Buddha, and lowered their krathong onto the water. As it drifted, the flame steadied, mirroring stars trembling on the current. Ekan drew in a breath, the scent of frangipani and incense filling his lungs. For a moment, time seemed to pause: two silhouettes bound to a small glowing raft, floating toward an uncertain horizon.

They leaned against the railing, shoulders touching. "Impermanence," Niran said softly, watching petals drift free. "Everything changes." Ekan nodded, recalling his grandmother's stories of rebirth and countless lives lived before this one. He thought of the blank journal waiting at home, ready to catch each fading moment. "Maybe next time," he murmured, "we should write down what this feels like." Niran kissed the back of his hand. "I'll be here to remind you."

A sudden dizziness washed over Ekan, as though the world had slipped a gear. The lantern reflections blurred, stretching into elongated dancers on water. He blinked, and for an instant saw himself in another form: long hair swept back, wearing a faded T-shirt, scribbling feverishly in a cramped room. The vision dissolved like spilled ink in water. Ekan swallowed, mouth dry. Niran's hand tightened around his wrist. "Are you okay?"

Shaking his head, Ekan blinked back to the present. "Just…heat." He forced a laugh, and Niran rested his forehead against his temple. After a moment, they hailed a rickshaw for the mile back to Sukhumvit Road. The driver navigated through a haze of exhaust and neon, the city unfurling around them like a living painting—endless movement punctuated by the staccato honk of horns.

At their apartment, Ekan kicked off his sandals and padded past the bookshelf where the new journal lay half-hidden behind a canvas. He paused, fingertips grazing its worn leather cover. Tonight he wouldn't open it; there would be time. Instead, he led Niran by the hand into the kitchen for a glass of water. They stood side by side, listening to the cicadas' distant chorus, and shared a quiet smile.

Later, in the hush of their bedroom, Ekan drifted between wakefulness and dreams. In his sleep, he wandered down long white corridors with no doors, walls stretching into vanishing points. He saw that same woman's fortune slip from his pocket and slide beneath a paneled floor—lost to an unseen depth. He woke with a gasp at 3:47 AM, heart hammering, sweat chilling his skin.

He lay rigid beside Niran's steady breathing, the slip of paper burning in his palm. Unfolding it under moonlight, he read the curling script again: "When the candle flame burns backward, your shadow will fade." He let out a shaky breath. The world felt both unbearably vast and unnervingly close. He pressed the paper over his heart, vowing to protect that shadow—though he had no idea from what.

As dawn's first light crept beneath their curtains, he closed his eyes and stole one last look at his lover's peaceful face. Whatever lay ahead, he would face it with Niran by his side. And tomorrow, he thought, he would finally begin writing in that journal—capturing every golden moment before it slipped away.

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