The night felt alive—not loud, not restless, just breathing beside us. Crickets sang somewhere in the dark, and the last temple bells faded into silence like a memory slipping beneath water. The house had gone still behind us, and even the Bodhi leaves above our heads looked like they were holding their breath.
Anurak and I sat on the stone steps outside, an old brass oil lamp flickering between us. Its light painted his skin gold and copper, and the shadows it cast made it seem like our silhouettes were leaning into each other even before we did.
We didn't speak. We didn't need to. The quiet between us wasn't hollow—it was full, like a bowl brimming with things too fragile to name.
His eyes were still wet from everything Granny had told us. He wasn't crying anymore, but I could see the shine at the corner of his lashes. He looked out over the field where mist had begun to gather and said, so softly I almost missed it,
"I used to dream of a song I couldn't finish. Every time I tried, it stopped at the same line. I thought it was just a melody I imagined as a child."
I turned to him. "What was the line?"
He didn't look at me when he said it. Maybe he couldn't.
> "Even if the world forgets me… may he remember."
Something in my chest—something that had no name—pulled tight. My fingers moved before I could think, brushing his hand, barely there. I don't know if I touched him for him or for myself.
"Then I think I remembered for both of us," I whispered. "Every lifetime."
He looked at me then. Really looked. And the smile that touched his lips—soft, tired, so full of ache—felt like an oath.
His hand closed over mine fully, warm and rough and steady in a way nothing else in my life has ever been. "I didn't think the gods would be kind enough to let us meet again," he said. "But maybe… they wanted us to finish the song."
The night sighed through the trees like it agreed. Fireflies rose from the grass in tiny bursts of light, like the stars had come down to sit with us.
I leaned into him, resting my head on his shoulder. Somehow, it felt like a place I'd always been meant to return to. "It feels strange," I murmured. "Knowing that the people I see every day—even Granny—are part of a story older than I am."
He traced small circles on the back of my hand, slow and gentle. "It's not strange," he said. "It means love doesn't end just because we do. It only changes shape until it finds us again."
I lifted my head and looked at him, the lamp glow catching in his eyes. "And what shape is it now?"
He smiled that smile—the one that hurts and heals all at once—and said, "This. You and me. Breathing the same air. Listening to the same night."
We didn't speak after that. We just stayed close, the world quiet around us, as if time itself was resting its head on our shoulders too.
After a while, I heard my own voice before I even meant to speak. "Anurak… will you promise me something?"
He didn't hesitate. "Anything."
"Don't go where I can't follow again."
He turned fully to me then, his eyes soft but burning, like a flame that refused to bow to wind. "Never again, Kael. Not in this life. Not in any life."
A laugh almost escaped me, but it tangled with a breath that trembled instead. I leaned in, pressing my forehead to his, and our breaths met like old friends.
"We'll finish the song together then," I murmured.
> "We already are," he said.
The oil lamp flickered like it was listening, then steadied—tall, unwavering, sure of its purpose.
Above us, the stars watched in silence, ancient and endless.
And somewhere far beyond distance and death, I think Rungsak and Chaiyan were watching too.
And smiling.