The temple woke the way a pressed flower unfolds—gentle, inevitable. Sunlight slipped along the eaves, and the first birds rehearsed. I walked the stone path with Sorren at my heels, the little bell on his collar jingling in rhythm with my pulse. My hands felt empty until I imagined the shape of Anurak's fingers on the strings; then they steadied.
He was already there, as promised—lean and quiet, both shadow and shape among the wooden pillars. He arranged mats beneath the open hall, each one a small island for the children. When he looked up, his face carried that stillness that had tugged at me since the river. He didn't ask about my sleep or my sudden arrival; he simply inclined his head, a brief curve of acknowledgment that felt more intimate than many conversations.
"Good morning," he said—voice like balm over a sudden bruise.
"Good morning," I answered, surprised at how ordinary the sound felt on my tongue. Ordinary and sacred, like a prayer I was learning to say.
The children arrived in noisy waves—sticky palms, muddy knees, laughter that rattled the rafters. They claimed their spots with the ease of creatures born to belonging. Anurak met each of them with steady patience, tuning tiny instruments, correcting a crooked hand with a fingertip that never scolded.
He asked me to sit near the back, to observe first. I wanted to stand at the center—wanted my mistakes to be his lessons—but watching became its own initiation. Watching the way he taught with his posture; the way his thumb kept time against his knee; the quiet coaxing that turned timid murmurs into brave voices.
When it came time to teach the morning chant, he lifted his voice and the whole room leaned toward it. The melody was soft—a hymn stitched for new light:
"Rise with the river, soft and slow,
Let the breath of dawn fill you.
Let the mind unwind into sunlight,
Let the heart open like the lotus."
The children echoed, their voices wobbling like loose threads. Anurak hummed until they matched him, clapped once, twice, exaggerated confusion when someone faltered—turning embarrassment into laughter, hesitation into courage.
Then a small boy—no higher than my waist—looked at me and asked if I would try.
The question landed like a pebble in still water. Every eye turned.
My palms went slick. My throat locked. My voice had always belonged to empty rooms and whispered nights when I spoke Anurak's name like prayer.
"Please," the boy insisted, solemn as a monk. "Sing, phi. For the river."
I felt Anurak's gaze on me—steady, patient. Permission without pressure.
I rose, awkward, and silence settled like silk. I breathed once—thought of the river, of moonlit prayers—and let my voice go.
It came out thin at first, a trembling stream. But Anurak breathed beside me—slow, unwavering—and the notes found their courage. He rested a hand on the khim, guiding rhythm with the barest brush of fingers. A bridge formed—not a rush of lightning, but something steadier. Two people building a song between them.
When we finished, the applause was small but luminous. The little boy clapped so hard dust fell from the beams. Anurak smiled—truly smiled—and inclined his head toward me, a quiet blessing.
Later, when the children scattered and the mats were stacked, he sat beside me on the cool stone and handed me a thin sheet of palm-paper. Notes. Markings of breath. Pauses. A map.
"You have a gentle tone," he said—not flattery, only truth. "Build from that. Let your breath carry the phrase, not the other way around."
"Will you… show me how to hold it?" I asked.
He did. His fingers curved over mine, shaping my hands into position. Our skin touched for only a breath, but the world narrowed to that warmth. It was nothing. It was everything.
Sorren chose that moment to shove his head into my elbow, demanding devotion. Anurak laughed softly and stroked his fur as though handling something precious. His movements were suddenly domestic—human, reachable—and the sharpness of my longing softened into something almost sweet.
We spoke of small things—the way the air sweetens after rain; why bamboo sings in the wind; elders who still remember old songs by heart. He spoke of teaching—of how he asked the children to hide loudness behind kindness. I told him, clumsily, how the river had felt after the festival: like an answer whispered to a question I hadn't dared ask aloud.
When an elder passed, stooped and silver-haired, Anurak stood immediately, bowing with instinctive reverence. It wasn't performance. It was lineage lived in his spine.
"You asked for lessons," he said when the sun began to press heat into the stones. "We'll set times. But remember—music is not learned only with the mouth. It requires patience. Listening to the silence that holds it."
"I want to listen," I said. Truly said. "Even if it's only to learn patience."
He considered me, expression turning inward like twilight. Then: "Good. We begin tomorrow at dawn. Bring nothing but yourself."
I walked home cradling the palm-paper notes, already creased by my hands. The ache in my chest had quieted into something like promise.
That night, I slept with the sheet beneath my pillow, its markings pressed into my dreams. I whispered the chant until sleep took me, the notes threading into my breath like a lullaby I had always known.
Outside, the temple bells tolled slow and deep. And somewhere beyond the dark, a voice—his voice—rose and fell like a promise folded into stars.