The afternoon sun slanted through the woven blinds, streaking the room in gold and dust. The air was thick with the scent of old books and jasmine tea, and from somewhere beyond the courtyard came the faint sound of children's laughter.
Anurak sat cross-legged on the floor near the window, his khim resting across his lap. The same quiet smile played on his lips— that tender, unreadable smile I could never stop looking at.
"I still can't believe you came," I murmured, sitting opposite him, chin resting on my knees. "You didn't even tell me. I just came out to the verandah and—there you were."
He chuckled softly, tuning a string. "If I told you, you'd have spent the entire day cleaning your room and panicking."
I pouted, cheeks puffing slightly. "Maybe I would've! You just appeared like some temple spirit."
"That's because I missed you," he said simply, looking up. "For too long, I've watched you from afar. Now I am here at your home, and I don't have to hide anymore."
His words made my laughter fade. My chest tightened with that ache that feels both tender and unbearable.
After a while, I whispered, "Sing something for me."
He blinked. "Now?"
"Yes. I want to hear your voice—the one that makes everything slow down."
He hesitated for a breath, then nodded. His fingers moved gracefully, coaxing a gentle hum from the strings—low, wistful, almost like a heartbeat. Then his voice came, steady at first, then trembling with emotion.
"In another dawn, I'll find you again...
When winds forget my name, you'll
Whisper it.
Even if the sky falls silent—
I'll know it's you who breathes through me."
The melody filled the room like incense smoke—ancient, aching, and soft as silk. My throat tightened. When the last note faded, I just sat there, eyes wide.
"Phi," I whispered. "I've heard this before."
He tilted his head. "No, you couldn't have."
"Yes," I said, brows furrowing. "Last night Granny was humming it when I was half asleep. I remember it exactly—the same rise, the same fall. Even the way the last line fades."
The colour drained slightly from his face. His hand stilled on the string. "How does she know this song...?"
"Why?" I asked, puzzled.
"Because," he said softly, voice shaking, "it was written by Rungsak."
The air between us froze. I felt something shift, like the air itself remembering an old sorrow.
Without another word, we both rose—silent, barefoot—and walked to the verandah where Granny sat. She was there as always, her thin frame wrapped in a soft white shawl, prayer beads slipping rhythmically through her fingers. The smell of sandalwood hung around her, calm and warm.
"Mimi," I called gently, sitting beside her. "Can we ask you something?"
She looked up, her eyes glinting like old river stones. "What is it, my dear?"
Anurak sat down across from her, palms pressed together respectfully. "The song... you sang that night... where did you learn it?"
At that, her hand froze mid-beads. She looked at him—really looked at him—as though seeing something she had long forgotten.
"That song..." she murmured. "I heard it when I was a young girl from my kru."
"Kru?"
She nodded slowly, eyes drifting toward the garden.
"Yes. He was a person the temple had claimed in a quieter way. He was not a monk, but a music teacher who had grown up beneath the singing of bells and the murmur of chants. His hands learned rhythm before any prayer." She smiled softly. "He taught music to whoever wished to learn—child or elder, boy or girl. To him, sound itself was sacred. He was gentle, quiet like the rain that falls without sound. His name was Rungsak."
I gasped out loud. I watched Anurak's lips part, but no sound came out. His pulse thundered in his ears.
"How...?" His voice cracked. "How do you know that name?"
Granny smiled faintly, though her eyes glistened.
"He used to teach me temple music. Once, he told me he was composing a song—for someone he called his Falcon. I asked him who that was, and he smiled and said, 'He's the one I love.'"
Her hands trembled now, beads slipping from her grasp.
"I met his Falcon once," she continued, voice distant. "A man named Chaiyan. He came to visit kru one afternoon. I was just a girl then... but I remember thinking he looked like sunlight turned human. They didn't speak much—they didn't need to. The air around them... it was full of something sacred."
I swallowed hard, chest aching. Anurak sat frozen, eyes brimming as though the truth itself was burning behind them.
"I was there... when they died," Granny whispered, tears spilling silently. "The people said they had sinned. That the gods punished them. But even then, I knew... my kru was never capable of evil. Nor was Chaiyan. They were kind souls who simply loved in a way the world didn't understand."
The afternoon wind stirred. Somewhere, a wind chime trembled.
"It took me years to understand," she continued softly. "That it wasn't sin. It was the purity of love that frightened the world. They were punished not because they did wrong—but because they were brave enough to love."
Her gaze turned to Anurak, studying his trembling lips, his tear-streaked cheeks. "When I saw you years later, at your father's ordination ceremony... my heart knew. I told myself, he's here again. The man who played flute under the bodhi tree."
Then her eyes found mine, and I felt tears run freely down my face. "And when Kael came to this village... I knew the rest of the story. Fate brought my kru and his Falcon home again—as Anurak and Kael. The same love, new names... and the same souls."
The words fell like blessings.
Anurak's lips trembled. His eyes softened, the weight of lifetimes collapsing in his chest. He began to sob, covering his face. My heart broke watching him. Slowly, wiping his tears, he whispered, voice breaking—"Waan."
The name slipped out—gentle, reverent—the name he once called her in another time.
Granny gasped softly, eyes widening as tears welled again. She reached for him with trembling hands.
"My child," she whispered, cupping his face. "You remember."
He nodded, a tear sliding down his cheek and falling onto her palm.
"I never forgot," he whispered. "Even when the skies changed, even when I had no name to call it by—I never forgot."
Grandma's voice broke into a laugh that was half sob. She drew him close, pressing his head against her chest.
"You're home now," she murmured. "Both of you are home."
I leaned in too, arms around Anurak's back, forehead resting against his shoulder. We sat there, beneath the fading sky—an old promise finally kept, a song reborn, a circle closed.
And for the first time in centuries, the souls of Rungsak and Chaiyan rested—not as memories, but as living, breathing love.