The walk home from the temple was heavier than any fever before.
Sorren padded beside me, tail wagging in lazy arcs, but even he seemed subdued — glancing up at me with those bright eyes, as though he knew something in me was quietly crumbling.
Each step echoed with the weight of Anurak's voice — "Go home, Kael…"
It was like a whisper... and then his silence, the words he had held back.
By the time the house appeared, bathed in the soft burn of evening light, my chest still ached.
No fever could leave me this weak — it was something deeper.
Granny was waiting on the verandah.
She always sat there as though she had been rooted to that spot by time itself — her back straight, her shawl wrapped around her like a second skin.
A brass oil lamp flickered at her side, its flame swaying but never dying.
When she raised her eyes to me, I felt as though she wasn't just seeing me — but seeing through me.
"You came back pale," she said, her voice calm, not accusing.
The voices inside me were too sharp, too bare; I was afraid that if I released them, they would wound me even more.
Granny poured water from the earthen pot into a small tumbler and handed it to me.
Her fingers brushed mine — cool and steady — and in that touch there was no demand, only presence.
"A man doesn't carry such eyes without reasons," she murmured.
Something inside me cracked open. The tumbler shook slightly in my hands.
"Mimi…" my voice broke before I could steady it.
"What if I'm wrong? What if I'm reaching for something that isn't mine? What if I'm only chasing shadows?"
I swallowed hard, the words spilling like a confession I could no longer keep.
"But even then… I can't let it go. I can't stop."
Her beads slipped softly through her fingers, one by one — the rhythm steady as a heartbeat.
"The world will always tell you what is proper, what is not," she said quietly.
"But the heart—" her gaze touched mine, unwavering — "the heart doesn't understand such rules. It only knows longing. It only knows hunger."
Her words felt like a hand pressed against the wound in my chest — not to heal it, but to remind me I was still alive.
I bent forward, my elbows on my knees, the tumbler untouched.
"He won't even look at me. And when he does…" my voice trembled, "it's like he's fighting something I can't see. Something that keeps him away. And it hurts, Mimi. It hurts more than I can bear."
Her hand moved — resting on my shoulder, light but anchoring me to the earth.
"Pain is proof that you are alive, Kael," she said softly.
"Do not run from it. Sit with it. Let it whisper to you. Pain will tell you the truth that joy never dared."
The tears came uninvited. I pressed my face into my hands, ashamed, unable to hold them back.
Sorren whimpered and nudged against me, as though he too wanted to share the burden.
Granny's voice was steady, warm like the earth itself.
"Love doesn't always walk to your door and enter. Sometimes it waits outside, silently, for years. Sometimes it passes by, wasted. But love — even unreturned — teaches you the depths of your own heart."
I leaned against her then, like a child again, my forehead pressing into her lap.
The faint scent of sandalwood clung to her clothes.
Her hand stroked my back in slow, steady circles — grounding me, gathering up the pieces that felt like they were falling apart.
"And what if it breaks me, Mimi?" my voice was muffled in her clothes.
"What if there's nothing left of me when it's done?"
She hummed — a low, ancient sound, part prayer, part lullaby.
"Then let it break you. Let the pieces fall. Sometimes, Kael, only in the breaking do we see what was hidden inside. Sometimes, only then, does the soul shine clear."
I stayed there for a long while, curled against her, letting the rhythm of her voice and her touch calm the storm.
Outside, the crickets sang their shrill chorus, the night blooming around us.
But here — in her lap, in her silence — I was safe.
Granny never asked for names, never pressed for answers. She always knew.
She carried my secret not as a weight, but as a flame she would guard without question.
And in that moment, I understood why my heart had run to her — why I had broken open at her feet.
Because Granny was the only place I knew where I could collapse and still be whole.
Sleep came reluctantly that night, dragging me into a world I did not fully recognise.
The room was quiet, Sorren curled against my feet — but my chest felt tight, restless, as if it carried a memory that would not let go.