The first thing Lin Chen noticed when he woke was the lack of sweat.
No cold, clammy dampness on his back, no tightness in his throat from screaming himself awake—just the soft weight of his tattered jacket over his chest, and sunlight filtering through the temple's broken roof, dappling his hands with gold. He lay still for a long moment, listening: the distant trill of a myna bird, the wind rustling vines outside, the slow drip of water from a cracked roof tile into a puddle on the stone floor.
For years, his sleep had been filled with shadows. Nightmares of Black Scorpion machetes glinting in the dark, of his mother's face fading into a cloud of white mist, of his father's shaven head turning away from him at the temple gate. He'd grown used to jolting awake at dawn, heart pounding, convinced someone was waiting to drag him into a boiling pot or leave him to starve in the bamboo grove.
But last night? Nothing. No shadows, no screams. Just a quiet so deep, he'd woken up feeling… rested.
Lin Chen sat up slowly, his muscles stiff from the hard wooden bench, but his head felt light—no fog of fear, no gnawing ache of hunger (not yet, anyway). He reached for the banana leaf he'd left on the stone altar; the remaining sticky rice was cold, the coconut cream gone firm, but when he bit into it, the sweet, nutty flavor still made his stomach settle. He ate slowly, savoring each bite—like he was storing up the warmth for whatever came next.
When he finished, he brushed crumbs off his frayed shirt and stood, stretching his legs. The ache in his bare feet was still there, a dull throb from the stones and thorns of yesterday, but it didn't sting like it had before. It felt like a reminder, not a punishment: You ran. You survived. You're here.
He walked to the temple door, pushing one of the rotting wooden panels aside. Morning mist curled around the mango trees, thin and white, like the veiled woman's saree. The air smelled of wet earth and jasmine—faint, but there—and he took a deep breath, letting it fill his lungs. For a second, he almost smiled.
Then his fingers brushed the ivory lotus pendant around his neck. Cold, smooth, just like always. But he remembered last night: the way it had warmed in his palm, the faint glow of the carved petals, like a tiny light he'd kept secret. The veiled woman's words came back to him, soft and clear: You'll find out. Soon.
"Find out what?" he muttered, kicking a small stone into the mist. It disappeared without a sound. "Where Mom is? Why Dad left? What this pendant really is?"
No answer, of course. But as he turned to head back into the temple—wondering if he should fill his pockets with dry leaves for a pillow, or look for a stream to drink from—a flash of white caught his eye.
It was stuck in the vines that covered the temple's broken outer wall: a scrap of silk, the same pale white as the veiled woman's clothes. Lin Chen's heart skipped a beat. He stepped closer, gently pulling the vines aside, and found the scrap was tied to a tiny folded note, written on rough, brown paper with black ink.
His hands shook as he unfolded it. The writing was neat, thin—nothing like the messy scrawls of the village fruit sellers, or the gang members who marked their debts with charcoal. It was in Thai, and he could read it (Mrs. Li had taught him, back when she still had the strength to hold a pencil and trace letters in the dirt):
"The Black Scorpions won't come here. Stay till noon—they'll search the west woods first. At sunset, go east. Follow the river that bends like a lotus petal. It leads to the Ironwood Forest. Wait for the moon before you enter. Trust the pendant when it warms."
No name. No "I'm the veiled woman" or "This is why I saved you." Just instructions. But Lin Chen knew who it was from.
He folded the note back up, tucking it into the pocket of his trousers—pressing it against his chest, right next to the pendant. The river that bends like a lotus petal. Old Mr. Tan, the village fisherman, had talked about that once, before he'd died of a fever. He'd said it was a "hidden path," one that only showed itself to people who "needed to find something."
Lin Chen glanced up at the sun, now higher in the sky, burning off the mist. Noon was hours away. He could rest, or walk to the edge of the woods to find water. But he didn't want to wait. The note felt like a thread—thin, but strong—pulling him forward. Toward answers. Toward whatever his mother had left for him.
He grabbed his jacket off the bench, slinging it over his shoulder, and stepped out into the morning light. The pendant stayed cold against his chest, but for the first time, Lin Chen didn't mind. He knew it would warm again—when he needed it most.
And this time, he was ready.