THYME'S POV:
The heavy, cloying scent of incense, thick with sandalwood and something else, something earthy and ancient, was a strange comfort. It settled over me, a physical weight that seemed to press down on the chaos in my mind, quieting the frantic, screaming voices. I was still raw from what I had just witnessed. The image of the beaten, broken woman was seared onto the back of my eyelids, a brutal echo of my cousin Siriporn's fate. It was a fresh wound reopening an old one, and the pain was sharp and real.
Siriporn was like a sister to me. After my grandmother died, a quiet, gray sorrow settled over my life, and my own parents' cold distance became a permanent winter. With Siriporn's death, that winter turned into an ice age, and my greatest fear was reborn: rejection. Abandonment. Now, in this strange, incense-filled room, I finally understood the dread that had coiled in my gut when I saw Meta's video. It wasn't just about him; it was about me. I was terrified of being rejected, not just by my peers, but by the one person I had finally, terrifyingly, allowed myself to open up to. It's easy to say that love can conquer anything, but Siriporn's death was a brutal, horrifying proof that it couldn't. It couldn't conquer hatred.
"Child, there are things in this world that we cannot change," the old woman's voice, though soft, was a deep, resonant sound that seemed to vibrate through my very bones. She spoke as if she were reading the frantic, panicked script in my mind. "We cannot force everyone to be understanding and kind. Human beings are created with fear. Everyone fears what they cannot understand."
She was right. I had no words to argue. I could only sit there, a silent, sobbing testament to the truth of her words, my body shaking with a grief that felt centuries old.
"But child, it does not mean you must keep this hatred you have inside you," she continued, her voice gentle yet firm, a surgeon's steady hand preparing to make an incision. "Hatred is the source of our greatest mistakes, a venomous reaction to the fear of injustice. So do not hold it back. Let it out, or your mind will become a cage for your own demons, and they will feast on you until nothing is left."
Her words were a key. They turned a lock I didn't even know existed, and the door to a dark, forgotten room in my soul creaked open. All the anger, the fury, the helpless rage I had kept buried for years—the hatred for my uncle, for the man who had just beaten his daughter, for the cruel, faceless mob, for my own parents—came bubbling to the surface, a thick, black poison. Tears, hot and thick, streamed down my face. My chest ached with a pain that was beyond sorrow. The crying I had done earlier was grief, a release of sadness. This was different. This was an exorcism. This was the raw, primal cry of a soul purging itself of a poison it had carried for a lifetime. I wanted to scream, to curse them all, but no sound would come out. All I could do was sob, the sound a ragged, broken thing in the quiet room, as the hatred finally, finally left me, leaving me hollowed out and utterly exhausted.
I don't know when I fell asleep, but when I woke, the sunlight was a thin, golden strip in the unfamiliar room. The smell of incense still lingered. I was still in the past, still in this strange house, still with this woman.
"Oh, you are already awake, child," she said, her voice a warm, gentle melody. She looked no older than thirty, but her presence was ancient. "Are you hungry?"
I wanted to say no, to not be any more of a burden. But before I could form the word, my traitorous stomach growled, a loud, embarrassing protest that echoed in the quiet room. She chuckled softly, a sound of genuine warmth that eased the shame burning on my cheeks.
"Let me prepare some food for you," she said, disappearing into another room.
I stood and tidied her bed, a small, futile attempt to repay her kindness, before following. The hallway was lined with shelves and altars. I recognized Phra Mae Thorani and Phra Kali, but there were others—statues that felt different, more ancient. One, no more than a foot and a half tall, perched reverently atop a wooden altar stained dark with age. It stared with wide, unblinking eyes carved deep into its large, square face. Polished shells were pressed into the eye sockets, glinting eerily in the candlelight, giving it the illusion of life. Its mouth was a stern line. It felt… commanding. Like it was listening. Judging. A red cloth was tied around its neck. Dried flowers, colorful beads, and a small bowl of rice were laid before it, beside a knife stained with something dark and dry—blood, I feared.
I felt a shiver run down my spine. The air around the statue felt heavy, charged with a strange, ancient energy. At the back of the idol, I noticed strange etchings—swirling patterns of suns and waves. It wasn't random. It felt alive. I had stepped into a world I couldn't comprehend.
The delicious aroma of food, a scent that was both deeply familiar and a punch of a forgotten memory, pulled me from my trance. I followed it down the stairs to a small dining area. The old woman—Khunying Dawklao, I remembered—was there, setting the table. She turned, a kind and gentle smile on her face that, for a fleeting moment, felt so achingly familiar it made my heart clench.
"Oh, you're here, child," she said. "Let's eat now."
I stopped dead in my tracks. A steaming bowl of rice porridge with tender meat. A plate of Kai Luk Koei—deep-fried boiled eggs in a thick, sweet tamarind sauce. A soft bun, Kanom Pang Sai Moo, bursting with savory pork filling. And a bowl of warm, soothing Nam Tao Hoo.
Tears, hot and sudden, spilled from my eyes. It wasn't just the food. It was that food. Every single dish was a ghost, a taste of a time that was long gone. It was my grandmother's cooking. The food she would make for me when I was sad, when I was sick, when I just needed to feel loved.
"What's wrong, child?" she asked, her voice filled with a genuine, worried concern.
I quickly wiped my tears with the back of my hand, but more followed. "It's… it's because these were my grandmother's dishes," I choked out, the words a raw, broken whisper. "She always cooked them for me."
She just looked at me with a warmth that seemed to banish the coldness in my heart. "I see," she said simply. "Let's eat before the food gets cold."
I took a bite of the porridge, and a wave of pure, unadulterated happiness washed over me. It tasted exactly like my grandmother's. The peace and comfort that had vanished from my life the day she died now came rushing back with every single bite. Each dish was a perfect, heartbreaking replica of a love I thought I had lost forever. I had never felt this happy in my life. By just eating, I felt my soul healing.
"H-How?" I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. "How can all this food taste exactly like my grandmother's?"
She just smiled, a gentle, knowing smile. "I'm glad you like the food I made."
When we finished, I washed the dishes, a desperate need to repay her kindness. I found her upstairs, carefully anointing the statues with oil.
"I'm sorry," I began, my heart pounding. "I don't even know your name."
"My name is Khunying Dawklao," she said. "But you may call me Aunt Ying."
"Aunt Ying," I repeated. "I'm Thyme."
"Yes, I know," she said, her eyes twinkling with a shared secret. My confusion must have been plain on my face. "I am a shaman, child. I have seen you in my dreams. That is how I know your name."
A shiver of both fear and hope went down my spine. "Are you reading my mind?" I blurted out.
She chuckled softly. "No, child. I can simply see the questions in your eyes. These statues you are curious about are called 'anito.' They are sacred idols from the Philippines."
"The Philippines?" I was more confused than ever. "But why? We have our own gods here."
She sat down on the floor, motioning for me to sit beside her. "That is because my mother was a shaman from the Philippines—a 'babaylan.' My father was a shaman here. I am a child of two traditions. I walk in two worlds."
"Is that even possible?" I asked, my mind reeling. "How can you use different gods from different countries?"
"It is simple, child," she said, her voice filled with a deep, ancient wisdom. "Gods are spiritual beings, not bound by the borders men draw on maps. All shamans can communicate with spirits, but not all can speak with the divine. Rituals are a language, a bridge. For most, the connection is fragile, a whisper in one direction. But for those of us with a powerful bloodline, those who are blessed by our ancestors, the communication is a conversation. My mother worshipped these gods, and as her child, their power flows through my blood as well."
A glimmer of hope sparked in my heart. She could help me. The thought must have been written all over my face, because she immediately shook her head.
"No, child," she said, her voice gentle but firm, and the hope in my chest died. "I cannot help you with your ability."
"But… why?" I pleaded. "You have all this power. You know who I am."
She turned to face me, and for the first time, I saw a deep, profound sadness in her ancient eyes. "Because the power that flows through you is not like mine. It is a torrent, a raging river fed by a source I cannot comprehend. It is a power that was not born, but made. You do not come from a powerful bloodline, child. You are the powerful bloodline. And I am afraid that the ones who made you are still watching."
She turned back to her statues, the conversation over. I was left alone with my thoughts, the glimmer of hope extinguished, replaced by a new, terrifying dread. Made. The word echoed in the silence, and the weight of my past, and a future I couldn't understand, pressed down on me once more.