I couldn't sleep after the banyan tree.
Not with that name scroll wrapped in silk burning in my pocket like a curse I didn't mean to carry.
The house felt different now.
Colder.
Hollow.
Aunt Malee hadn't said a word since I returned. She cooked dinner silently, her hands moving automatically—chopping, stirring, serving. But she never touched her own food. Never looked me in the eye.
Uncle Prem sat near the window, staring out into the dark like he was waiting for someone to knock.
No one did.
---
Later, I crept into my mother's old room.
I don't know what I was hoping to find.
Answers?
A confession?
All I found were shadows and dust.
But something about the floorboards beneath her bed caught my attention.
The wood felt uneven—warped in the center. As if it had been pulled up before… and nailed back down.
I pried it loose.
And beneath, wrapped in a decaying scarf, was a notebook.
---
It was old.
Pages yellowed, corners stained with what looked like dried rain—or tears.
On the cover, in faded red ink, was written:
> "บันทึกแห่งคำสัญญา"
(Journal of the Pact)
---
The first few pages were written in Thai so ancient it took me time to parse.
But slowly, like dust brushing from memory, the story came into focus.
---
> "There were five of us."
"Born under the eclipse."
"Marked by the shadow of the banyan."
"We were told we would never carry children."
"That something was wrong with our blood."
> "But the monk came with an answer."
"Luang Pho Niran."
"He said the shrine would grant us a child… if we gave it a name never meant to be spoken."
---
The next few pages were filled with names.
Not full ones. Just nicknames, initials, symbols.
But one was circled over and over again:
> Kamala.
My mother.
Beside it, a drawing.
Five girls standing beneath a tree with their hands joined, bleeding into a bowl.
---
I flipped through more pages.
They described the ritual.
The offering.
The chanting.
The carving of names into the bark.
The burying of the scrolls beneath the shrine.
The candle that wouldn't go out.
And one phrase repeated on every page, scrawled in larger and larger script:
> "A name is a vessel."
"A vessel must be emptied before it can be filled."
"We emptied her."
---
Suddenly, I felt sick.
My stomach churned. My ears rang.
I ran to the bathroom. Threw cold water on my face.
But when I looked up into the mirror—it wasn't my face staring back.
It was hers.
The faceless woman from beneath the banyan.
Except now she had eyes.
Wide. Black. Weeping.
And she mouthed something I couldn't hear.
---
I smashed the mirror with my hand.
Glass rained down into the sink like falling teeth.
My palm bled.
But I didn't feel the pain.
All I felt was her voice in my mind:
> "You carry what I was promised."
> "She stole the soul."
> "Now the god wants balance."
---
I returned to the journal.
Near the back was a folded page, stiff with dried wax.
I peeled it open carefully.
Inside was a map.
Drawn in faded charcoal.
It led to a place just beyond the shrine path.
A hut.
A woman's name written in the margins:
> Nok.
(The one who stayed.)
---
She was the only one who survived the ritual.
According to the journal… the others had died in childbirth, disappeared, or gone mad.
But Nok lived.
Blind. Silent. Afraid.
And still in possession of the fifth scroll—the one that had never been burned.
The one that might undo the pact.
---
I didn't wait for morning.
I packed a flashlight, wrapped my bleeding palm, and followed the path alone.
The jungle swallowed sound quickly.
My footsteps didn't echo.
The wind refused to blow.
But the deeper I went, the louder I heard it—
The whispering.
Not in words.
Not in Thai.
Just… syllables.
Rising and falling like breath through leaves.
Calling.
---
The hut was hidden beneath a tangle of vines and prayer flags.
No door.
Just a hanging cloth stained red with age.
I stepped through.
And found her.
---
Nok sat in the center of the room, legs crossed.
Eyes white with cataracts.
Her face covered in small charms—tiny carved bones and coins hanging from her ears, her neck, her brows.
She didn't move when I entered.
Didn't blink.
But when I whispered her name—
She turned her head to me and smiled.
---
> "She told me you'd come," she said.
Her voice was dry. Cracked.
> "The daughter born from borrowed breath."
> "Kamala's child."
---
> "Why?" I asked.
> "Why did she do it?"
> "Why make a deal like that?"
---
Nok laughed softly.
> "Because she loved you."
> "Even if you weren't hers."
---
She lifted something from her lap.
A bowl of ashes.
Inside it was a scroll.
Blackened but intact.
She handed it to me with trembling fingers.
> "This was never burned."
> "That's why the god still wakes."
> "That's why the shrine sings."
---
> "What do I do with it?"
> "How do I stop this?"
---
She reached out and touched my face.
Her hands were warm. Dry as leaves.
> "You can't undo the name you carry."
> "But you can offer it back."
> "You can go to the root."
> "And bury your voice beneath the banyan."
---
I stepped back.
> "If I give it back… will I still be me?"
---
She didn't answer.
Just turned her blind eyes to the ceiling.
> "Ask the tree," she whispered.
> "She remembers everything."