The early-morning light crept along the corridor carpet, painting pale stripes across shabby doors numbered 2 through 8. I woke to the distant rumble of traffic and a low murmur—no cicadas, no incense, just the hum of air conditioners and muffled voices drifting through thin walls. My head throbbed as I surfaced from sleep, the mattress groaning beneath me. For a moment, I felt weightless, untethered from any identity. Then I remembered who I wasn't: Ekan Lertsombat. I was Jade Thompson, and Jade had responsibilities.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, wincing at how unfamiliar my limbs felt. Cold laminate floors pressed against my feet. I blinked twice, then stood, swaying slightly. On the bedside table sat:
A half–empty bottle of melatonin. Two overdue rent notices, printed in bold red. A crumpled post–it reading "Jade: 8AM–11AM shift, Peppercorn. 2PM class, RCC."
I tucked the journal behind the canvas in my satchel as I rose. The tight circle of anxiety fluttered in my chest: rent was due Friday, and Jade owed more than two weeks' back pay. I had to figure out her routines or I'd be out on the street.
In the hallway, I passed Megan's door—number 4—open just wide enough for a sliver of shadow. My roommate's laughter spilled out as she battled with the shower's water pressure. At number 5, Sara's room breathed in silence; I could hear the faint glow of her laptop. I pressed on, drawn toward the communal kitchen at the end of the hall.
The kitchen was cluttered but tidy in its own way: mismatched mugs lined on open shelves, a battered table with four chairs, and a pinboard above the sink. On it:
• A clipping of Jade's college ID: Riverside Community College, expires May 2024.
• A torn bus pass punch–card, half stamped.
• A flyer for a weekend meditation retreat at Lotus Blossom Center.
My heart leapt at the flyer. Lotus Blossom Center—an introduction to Buddhist chanting and rebirth practices. If anyone could help me unravel my own reincarnation puzzle, it might be them.
I found a chipped mug with "#1 Waitress" scrawled in black permanent marker. I filled it at the Keurig—no tea leaves, no jasmine scent, just long–expired coffee pods. The hot brown liquid tasted acrid but jolted me awake. I clutched the mug in both hands, pressing my forehead into its rim for a second before setting it on the table.
A knock came at the door. Megan swept in wearing scrubs, her ID badge jingling. "Late again, Jade?" she said, piling toast crumbs into a bowl with an impatient flick of her wrist. "Boss is breathing down my neck, too. They nearly scheduled me for double shifts this weekend."
I tried to speak, but my voice—Jade's voice—came out shaky. "I—I know." I kept my tone low. "Morning."
Sara entered next, hooded sweatshirt pulled tight, eyes bloodshot. "Sorry, guys," she mumbled, pulling out her phone. "Library gig ran late. Chats with my prof about the thesis."
They exchanged a look, then moved to their routines. Within seconds, I was left alone with stale coffee and the Lotus Blossom flyer.
By 7:50 AM I was pasting on a fake sense of confidence as I barged into Peppercorn Diner's back door. The morning rush had subsided; the bell over the front entrance jingled only occasionally. I passed by the steaming grill where I'd scrambled eggs yesterday, grappling with the exact moment to flip the curds. The manager glanced at me in passing: "You made it," she said in a tone that might have been relief or resignation. I nodded and grabbed an order pad.
The day unfolded in plates of bacon and sausage, cups of black coffee, pancake stacks tall enough for a four–top. Between orders, I studied the memo board:
• Staff meeting, Friday, 3 PM—attendance mandatory.
• November rent collection, Sunday evening.
• "Jade: Update your availability on the schedule app."
The staff lunch break came at 11:30 AM. I ducked into the restroom and stared at my reflection—Jade's—etched with exhaustion lines a decade younger than I'd ever known. My pulse quickened. I spent five minutes typing "Lotus Blossom Center" into my phone and found their address in Highland Park, two bus transfers away. I jotted it on the stall wall: "Sat 9 AM." If there was any hope of returning to my life, I needed guidance on bridging lifetimes.
At noon, I slipped off my apron and rushed across cracked sidewalks to Riverside Community College. Jade's student ID was clipped to my notebook; swipe it, and turn the corner to Room 214 in the A building. English Composition—Professor Buswell. I found my seat at the front row and dropped my bag down. A friend waved: Amber, Asiatic features, short spiky hair dyed mauve, wearing a shirt that read "Write or Die." She patted the seat next to her.
"Big weekend?" she asked. "Mind if we meet for a study group Sunday afternoon at the student lounge?"
"I—yeah," I said, tapping my pen nervously. "Sounds good."
As Professor Buswell launched into the syllabus—thesis due December 1st, two–page summary on modern mythologies—I sharpened my thoughts on reincarnation. Each word felt heavy: "All essays must engage critical sources; failure to cite will result in grade reduction." Critical sources. Not journals. Not personal experience. But if I couldn't document what had happened to me in Bangkok, I might lose hold of myself entirely.
After class, I found Amber outside, scrolling on her phone. "Need any help locating the art studio software for next term?" she asked.
I shook my head. "I'm actually looking for something else." I glanced at the Lotus Blossom flyer in my satchel. "You ever been to meditation classes?"
She blinked, then grinned. "Actually, yeah. A friend dragged me to a vipassana retreat last year. No talking for three days—awesome for productivity afterward."
She scribbled a note on a napkin from the coffee cart: "DM me if you want more deets." She folded it into my hand and headed off. I tucked it into my pocket, a lifeline.
By 2 PM I was back at the diner for my second shift—short order work until 6. The lunch crowd was relentless: club sandwiches, kale salads, iced teas. I scooped fruit cups, toasted turkey on wheat, and studied the staff WhatsApp group on Jade's phone when I had a spare moment:
Megan: "Rent's $350. We need everyone's share by Sunday."
Sara: "I can manage $100. Jade owes $200."
Manager: "Jade, are you okay? You've been zoning out."
I forced myself to type a quick reply: "Working on it. On my way." I deleted it. Then retyped: "All good. Will pay Sunday."
The words tasted like ash. I realized I needed cash—and fast. The community college work-study office advertised openings in the library front desk. If I snagged that, I'd have at least $12/hour plus tuition waiver. I needed to apply today.
My final plate slid across the counter at 6:02 PM. I clocked out, stashing my pay slip in my wallet. I passed through the flickering neon of the diner sign and into the evening air. Sunset cast long shadows across the cityscape—an echo of golden light on temple rooftops I once sketched in Bangkok. My chest tightened. Each breath felt borrowed.
At the boarding house, the corridor was dark except for emergency lights. I padded past Megan's room—she was on late shift—and knocked on Sara's door. She answered immediately, hair in disarray, eyes rimmed with exhaustion.
"Hey," I said, "I need your help filling out a work-study form."
She led me to the sagging couch in the common room. I pulled out Jade's college paperwork—enrollment forms, transcript requests. Sara peered over each line, pointing out fields I'd overlooked. "You need advisor approval number here," she said, circling a box. "Hurry up. I've got rehearsal in five minutes."
I scribbled in the missing numbers and closed the packet. "Thank you," I said, voice soft. "Really."
She shrugged, snagged her backpack, and ducked out. I exhaled, relief flooding through me. I spread open the Lotus Blossom flyer again, tapping the date: Saturday, 9 AM. Plenty of time to send in this work-study packet, earn a few shifts, then find answers about reincarnation.
Back in my room, I retrieved the journal behind the canvas. Flicking to a fresh page, I wrote:
"I have two weeks to pay rent and register for work-study. I must learn this body's schedules, its finances, its debts—while I search for a way home."
I closed the journal, sliding it into a hidden notch behind the canvas. The lavender-scented lotion on Jade's nightstand beckoned—an echo of identity I wasn't allowed to destroy. I dabbed a little on my wrists, then sat on the edge of the bed, listening to my own breath.
Tomorrow I would be Jade: waitress, student, roommate. But I would also be Ekan: artist, lover, lost soul. I would live both lives in tandem until I uncovered the path back to my body, my Bangkok mornings, and to Niran's waiting hand.
And if I failed? I loosed the thought into the quiet, but refused to dwell there. Instead, I imagined two silhouettes under a paper lantern on Yaowarat Road—silvered faces turned toward each other, hands clasped. That memory would guide me through fluorescent kitchens and community-college halls until I could stand beneath golden temple spires once more.