The days before the festival moved like a tide, pulling the whole town into its rhythm.
By morning, the air smelled of banana leaves and fresh flowers. Neighbours swept their verandahs, water splashing down wooden steps, petals of frangipani floating away in little streams. Children raced through the alleys carrying baskets of marigolds, their laughter rising over the buzz of cicadas. Sorren darted after them, barking once, then circling back to me as if to check that I hadn't disappeared.
In the market square, tables were piled with orchids, lotus buds, and slices of banana trunk still damp from the knife. Women sat together, folding banana leaves into neat triangles, pinning them into patterns that blossomed like green crowns. Their voices stayed soft, trading gossip between folds. Men carried bamboo poles and hung lanterns across the walkways, strings of light that would glow once the sun dipped.
Granny pressed a bundle of leaves into my hand. "Come, Kael, learn properly," she said, laughing when my first petal collapsed in on itself. Her fingers were sure, tucking, pinning, turning the leaves into something delicate. She showed me how to nestle the blossoms between, how to place three sticks of incense and a small candle at the centre.
"Don't forget a coin," she added, slipping one into mine. "Every offering carries a wish."
At the temple, the monks' voices carried low and steady, a hum that seemed to sink into the very boards beneath our feet. People knelt, palms pressed together, eyes closed as the chant unfurled:
"Namo tassa bhagavato arahato Sammā sambuddhassa..."
The words curled through the air, ancient and unbroken—a prayer of respect and release.
Later, at the riverbank, I watched villagers test their krathongs. They lit the candles and incense, holding them briefly to their foreheads before placing them gently on the water.
"Forgive me," they whispered to the goddess of the river.
"Wash away my wrongs. Carry me toward peace."
The little boats drifted out, leaving trails of trembling light. By the time the sun dropped, the town had transformed. Strings of lanterns glowed above the streets. Food stalls steamed and crackled—grilled fish, fried bananas, sticky rice wrapped in leaves. The whole place smelled of earth, smoke, and sweetness. Children clutched sparklers, their faces painted gold by fire. Sorren pressed against my leg, ears flicking, as if he too felt the hum beneath it all.
And through it all, the dream pressed in on me, sharper now. Each folded leaf, each candle lit, each prayer murmured—it all felt like it was leading to something. Like the lights themselves were conspiring, waiting to reveal the face I had already seen.
Above us, the moon was growing, ripening, preparing to crown the night. And I knew—when it finally rose full and bright—the lights on the river wouldn't be the only things revealed.