"By moonlight, two hearts passed like ghosts on a bus —
One left behind a bracelet, the other, a wound."
—The Author
The thunder cracked like a tear in the sky.
Niloy stirred awake.
It was dark—all around him, a velvet abyss, stitched only by the flicker of one golden light. For a moment, he didn't move. He didn't need to. His body was curled in a posture so comfortable it felt foreign, his head resting on something firm yet soft, warmer than any pillow. Something alive.
A slow, steady beat pulsed beneath his cheek.
His lashes trembled. Gently, as though waking a dream, he lifted his head—just enough to see.
It was him.
Stranger.
Niloy's breath caught. Carefully, he drew back, eyes wide, limbs stiff with surprise. He hadn't meant to—he hadn't even noticed—yet here he was, having slept so carelessly close.
A soft gray blanket had been draped over him. But the man beside him had none.
Niloy looked again.
The seat had been extended into a bed. Stranger must have done it. Quietly, without a word. Wrapped him in warmth. Guarded his sleep.
The corners of Niloy's lips tugged upward, barely. "...Stranger."
Their faces were close. Too close. At this distance, he could see clearly—even in the dim. Stranger's expression, usually locked in frost, had melted. He no longer looked like someone carved from cold silence. Instead, he looked almost like a child who had only just arrived in the world—peaceful, unguarded, untouched.
Niloy didn't blink. He didn't dare. Some fear deep in his chest told him that if he looked away, Stranger might vanish entirely.
A faint ache bloomed in his heart.
With slow hands, he lifted a corner of the blanket and wrapped it around Stranger too. The fabric brushed over the man's shoulder like a secret.
"Stranger," he whispered, "I don't know if I'll see you tomorrow..."
A pause. The stillness of the night seemed to listen.
"But I'll always be grateful to you."
And then—suddenly—a frown puckered his brow. "You didn't even tell me your name!"
He huffed. "Stranger, you really are... too strange."
Outside, the sky began to pale with the earliest breath of dawn.
By six, the bus had rolled into Bangkok. The city greeted them with towers that scraped the heavens and streets too wide to hold direction. Niloy stepped down onto the pavement, Stranger beside him.
But before he could speak—
"Let's not see each other again," Stranger said coldly.
The shift in tone was sharp, slicing through the fragile warmth like broken glass. Then he turned and began to walk, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the wide ceramic road, vanishing between rows of sky-piercing towers.
Niloy didn't chase him.
He only stood there, staring at that retreating back.
"You didn't even let me thank you... Stranger."
His voice trembled. Sadness flickered through his eyes—like a candle in the wind.
"Will we meet again?"
He looked around.
But the sadness gave way to something else—fear.
Nothing was familiar. No one he knew stood beside him. The sky was too high. The city too loud. His heart felt like a boat cut loose from the shore.
He had already begun his journey.
Toward a dream.
But he did not know what his next step would be.
So he walked. Aimlessly, through the crowded streets—the streets of Khao San unfurled before Niloy like a dream too bright to hold—spilled neon on rain-darkened pavement, vendors shouting in a language he barely understood, music leaping from bar to bar like fireflies caught in glass. The world buzzed and spun, yet within that dizzying carousel, Niloy walked with a heart too still, too heavy.
"First, BL Studios," he murmured to himself, voice lost to the tide of revelry. His gaze flicked toward a glittering billboard above the crowd—two beautiful men, caught in an embrace too perfect to be real, smiled down at him like gods from another world. He smiled back faintly. "But first... a job."
Dreams were weightless things. Rent was not.
The night deepened. He walked.
Spicy smoke curled from roadside grills, mixing with perfume, sweat, and diesel. His footsteps faltered beneath signs he couldn't read. Hope thinned with every rejection, every too-polite smile that said: not you, not today. He had no passport. No connections. No name that mattered here.
And still he walked.
Then—again. That feeling.
The phantom breath at the back of his neck. That old, creeping knowledge that someone was watching. He stopped. Turned. The street glimmered, indifferent. But Niloy's fingers closed tightly around the iron rod he carried, calloused knuckles whitening. A habit learned in fear was not so easily unlearned.
He kept walking.
The presence behind him grew louder in silence. His breath quickened. Sweat slicked his brow despite the night's breeze. It was happening again, wasn't it? That same darkness, that same danger, slithering back like a forgotten nightmare reborn.
He turned, ready to strike.
"Hey—wait!" The voice came not as a threat, but as a plea. "Don't hit me!"
It was a boy. Slightly older than him, though not by much. His black shirt clung to a too-thin frame, eyes wide beneath rain-tossed hair. "I saw you've been walking for a while," he said carefully, lifting both hands in a gesture of peace. "You're not Thai, right? You look... lost."
Niloy hesitated. The rod lowered, just a little.
"My name's Techno," the stranger offered, his voice quiet and strangely earnest. "I can help you."
Niloy stared. This city had taken so much already. It offered nothing for free. But something in the boy's tone—unguarded, unpolished—felt... human.
So he followed.
The boy led him through narrow turns and quieter alleys until they came upon a small café nestled like a secret between shuttered shops. "Moon's Smile," the sign read in curling script. A single yellow lantern hung above the door, swaying faintly in the wind.
Inside, time seemed to slow.
Walls painted a gentle ocean blue cradled the scent of lemongrass and old wood. Woven baskets lined the shelves. Scarves in sunset colors fluttered softly in the breeze of a ceiling fan. There were only six tables, but the air was warm with something like memory.
Techno motioned to a man seated behind the counter, wiping a chipped ceramic cup with meticulous care.
"Uncle Tham," he said gently, "this is Niloy. He's... new. From far away. No connections, no job. But he's trying."
The man looked up.
His eyes were sharp, not unkind—but forged from years that taught him trust was expensive, and giving was risk.
"No passport?" he asked bluntly. "No ID?"
Niloy stood frozen. One word—No—and he'd be out again. Back in the dark, rod in hand, stomach growling.
He didn't speak.
He knelt.
His knees hit tile with a soft thud, and before anyone could speak, his arms reached out—fingers grasping Uncle Tham's pant leg with trembling urgency.
"I know I don't have papers," he said, voice cracking like worn porcelain. "But I'll prove myself. I'll wash every plate, every cup—I'll clean this whole place until the floor shines."
He gulped. The lump in his throat lodged like a stone. Still, he forced the words out.
"I... I need this."
Tears welled at the corners of his eyes, not dramatic, not forced—just quietly there, like dew that had always been waiting on the edge of morning.
Uncle Tham stared down at the boy clutching his leg, and something unreadable flickered in his expression—too brief to name.
Techno stepped closer, his tone no longer tentative, but certain.
"Uncle," he said, with rare conviction, "just this once, trust me."
Niloy turned his head, looked up at the boy beside him. And in that gaze, there was no pleading. Only gratitude. And something else—an unfamiliar warmth that one might mistake for faith.
Uncle Tham let out a long sigh.
"You'll get 4,500 baht," he said, voice curt. "Seven hundred will be cut for your meals. If customers give you a tip, it's yours to keep."
Niloy's eyes widened with disbelief.
"You'll work as a waiter during the day," Uncle Tham added, turning away. "And every night before bed, you'll clean the entire café. From ceiling to door. Accept?"
"Very accept!" Niloy cried, so fast the words tumbled out in the wrong order.
Meanwhile, a door creaked open in the back. A girl appeared, tray balanced easily on one hand. She couldn't have been more than twenty-one, her eyes bright and wide like the moon after rain. Her face lit up with effortless warmth.
"This is Mary," Techno said. "She lives here too. With me."
Niloy blinked. Lived?
"We've got servant rooms in the back," Techno explained, almost sheepish now. "You'll share with me, for now. If that's alright."
It wasn't alright. It was more than Niloy had dared to hope for.
Meanwhile, the ink-stained sky of Bangkok, a balcony stretched into the night like a secret held out to the wind.
There, seated in shadow and moonlight, was the one known only as Stranger.
The world behind him was silent—doors closed, lights dimmed, all noise swallowed by the hush of midnight—but the music he played did not belong to the quiet. It threaded through the night like silver silk, each note carrying the weight of something left unsaid.
He wore a white vest, light as breath, draped loosely over his body. The moon caressed the curves of his frame, tracing the sculpted rise of collarbone and the quiet power in his arms. The breeze lifted the edge of his shirt and swept his dark hair back from his brow, revealing a face as still as carved stone—yet not cold.
There was something alive in the silence between his chords.
His eyes, deep pools of obsidian, were lifted to the stars—not seeking them, but waiting. As if he had once asked the sky a question and had yet to receive his answer.
The guitar rested against his thigh like an extension of himself, his fingers dancing across its strings with intimate familiarity. He did not perform. He remembered. And remembrance, in his hands, became song.
He began to sing.
The words spilled forth like smoke curling from a flame—slow, aching, clear.
Guiding Star
I walk where no stars follow, yet your shadow keeps pace.
The wind forgets my name, but you still call it home.
You were never mine to hold, only mine to remember.
Like moonlight on water, close—
Yet forever out of reach.
Your back was always turned, but I learned the shape of your silence.
Even in parting, you left me whole—
Ruined, but whole.
If love is a curse, then let it be my blessing.
If you're the wound, let me be the hand that doesn't heal.
Then—
A faint rustle of footsteps behind him. Light, unhurried, familiar.
Before he could turn, a pair of slender arms wrapped around his shoulders. The embrace was warm, almost childlike, filled with ease he no longer knew how to feel.
He did not flinch.
"Brother," came the soft voice. Sweet as honey tea, laced with mischief and worry. "Your song was beautiful. Did you write it for someone?"
The arms released him, and the young woman stepped into the moonlight. Her short hair framed a delicate face, bright with intelligence and youth. Her name was Achara, and her eyes held the kind of light that came only from growing up in love and safety.
Stranger shifted his gaze back to the sky, brows low. "It's just a song," he replied, voice low and clipped. "Don't read into it."
Achara sat opposite him, chin resting on her hand. "But brother, songs like that don't come out of nothing. It felt... real."
Stranger's jaw tightened, his eyes flickering, shadows glancing across them. "Let's not talk about that."
Silence fell. The night pressed in gently, as if holding its breath.
Then Achara sighed, lowering her voice. "You've been gone so long. Mom hasn't said it aloud, but she checks her phone more often now. And I..."
She looked up, meeting his gaze. "I missed you."
Stranger didn't answer. But something subtle in his face—an eyelash lowered, a breath slower than the last—spoke for him.
"I'll try," he said at last, the words almost inaudible. "But I can't promise anything."
Achara wasn't satisfied, but she knew better than to push. Instead, she leaned in, her tone lighter. "Then at least let me tell you what you've missed. You always come back and act like the world stood still without you."
His lip twitched. "If I said no?"
"I'd still tell you," she grinned.
He reached out and gently flicked her forehead. "Then speak."
Achara launched into a rapid stream of chatter, bouncing from shopping sprees to birthday cake disasters to friends who thought she'd gotten fat—which, in her view, was clearly an insult bordering on blasphemy.
Stranger listened without interruption. Not because the stories mattered—but because her presence, full of warmth and thoughtlessness, felt like a lifeline to a version of himself he had long forgotten.
Then she paused.
A silver glint in the glass caught her attention—reflected in the mirror behind him. Her brows furrowed.
"Brother," she said slowly, "what's that bracelet? I've never seen you wear it before."
Stranger stiffened.
Almost imperceptibly, he moved his wrist beneath the table's edge. But not fast enough.
Achara reached across and touched the bracelet lightly. "This one. The silver one. It has... is that an L?"
Stranger's throat tightened. A moment passed before he answered, voice a shade too casual.
"I picked it up in Chiang Mai," he said, eyes averted. "Just a souvenir."
Achara's fingers lingered on the metal. "I know it's for men," she said with a soft laugh, "but I really like it. Can I have it?"
Stranger's heart clenched. The thought was irrational, almost absurd—but the idea of parting with it made something twist inside him.
Still, he smiled gently. "Tomorrow," he promised. "I'll get you one just like it."
Achara studied him a moment longer, her instincts tingling at something unsaid. But she didn't press.
"It's late," he added, almost too softly. "Go rest."
She leaned forward, embraced him again, and whispered, "Goodnight, brother."
Once she disappeared down the hallway, Stranger remained still for a long while.
Then, slowly, he turned his wrist upward and stared at the bracelet again.
Silver, thin, the faint engraved letter L catching the moonlight like a wound. It had tangled around his watch when he and Niloy had shared a cramped sleep on the sleeper bus. He hadn't noticed at first. Or perhaps he had noticed—but hadn't wanted to.
He brushed his thumb across the curve of the metal.
"Why did I lie?" he whispered.
His voice sounded strange to him—hoarse, as though it had not been used for anything honest in a long time.
The moonlight softened, clouds drifting in, veiling the sky like gauze.
Stranger tilted his head upward again, the bracelet still clutched in his hand.
"...What have I become?"