Sleep had abandoned me like an impatient friend. All night I tossed and turned, my heart whispering one name — Anurak. His face rose before me like a prayer I could not silence. By the time the stars began their slow retreat, I was already walking to the temple barefoot, as though my soul had gone ahead and my body had no choice but to follow.
The dawn was still unborn. The world lay wrapped in indigo, the trees dripping with dew. Even the crickets hushed, as if waiting for the first note of a great symphony. I sat beneath the old banyan tree, its roots like ancient arms around me, and closed my eyes. My chest was tight — not with fear, but with the sweetness of longing.
And then he came.
He entered the temple gates as though the morning itself had opened for him. He was dressed simply, yet the simplicity carried a quiet grandeur.
A plain white cotton shirt softened the line of his shoulders, and a dark indigo chong kraben was wrapped neatly around his legs, the folds moving with every careful step. A woven sash bound his waist, the muted red catching a breath of dawn light. He looked both rooted in tradition and timeless — like a figure who belonged to temple stone and morning sky alike.
The instrument he carried caught the faint glow, its polished wood reflecting the low birth of the sun. His steps were unhurried, yet they drew the world closer to him with every sound.
When his eyes found me, he paused. Something unreadable flickered there — perhaps recognition. Perhaps restraint.
"Kael," he said at last. My name on his lips was unlike anything I had known — softer than water, steadier than wind.
The temple seemed to breathe then, as if his voice had woken it. I couldn't answer at once; my throat carried too much. Only my eyes lifted to meet his, letting them speak where words would fail.
He set the khim down and knelt beside it, fingers brushing the strings with reverence. "Come closer," he said gently. "Before the children arrive — let the morning hear us."
The first note he played trembled like silver light, then another, and another — until the air itself quivered with a melody both tender and eternal. His voice followed, deep yet delicate, rising like incense into the sky:
"Sawasdee wan mai,
Phra arun jao…
Fah klai yang long rong,
Jai chan yua khang khun…"
(Good morning,
Lord of the dawn.
Though the skies fall far away,
My heart remains near you.)
The sound wrapped itself around me, twining through the pillars, curling into my chest like a memory I had always carried but forgotten to name. I closed my eyes, and for a heartbeat I was not Kael of this life — I was someone older, someone who had once stood in that same music beside him.
When the last note faded, I found my voice again, quiet as a confession. "It feels," I said, "as if your song was already inside me… waiting to be woken."
Anurak looked at me, and though he said nothing, his gaze lingered long enough that silence itself seemed to answer. His eyes spoke of recognition, though his lips chose restraint.
I leaned forward slightly, the words trembling as they left me. "Would you teach me?"
At that, the smallest smile touched his face — fleeting as dawn mist. He bowed his head, fingers resting lightly on the strings.
"If you wish, Kael. Music is a promise — you must carry it always. If you carry it, it will never leave you."
I nodded, and though no further words were spoken, I felt bound already — to the temple, to the song, to him.
The world stirred awake around us: the bells began their slow chime, birds broke into flight, and children's laughter spilled faintly at the edge of the temple courtyard. But before they entered — for a brief eternity — it was only us. His music, my silence, and the thread of fate weaving tighter between our souls.