The temple's courtyard smelled of smoke and frangipani. Morning light fell through the lattice of teak beams and painted the stone steps in slow hold. Even before I pushed the gate open, I could hear the monks chanting—low, even, the sort of sound that seems to live beneath your ribs. People moved quietly around the compound: old women sweeping, children offering sticky rice, a boy lighting incense with careful hands.
I had told myself I was going for a simple blessing—something to fold into my pocket and carry back to the city. Granny had suggested it like she might suggest a cup of tea; gentle, necessary. But my feet felt heavier than they should. Anurak had been rubbing at the very edge of my mind, and now the temple felt like another page where his voice might be written.
Sorren padded close to my side, the little bell on his collar ticking each time he moved. He sat politely while I stepped forward to the line where villagers knelt before the abbot. People pressed coins and folded paper, placing offerings in the alms bowl, head bowed, incense burned thin. I waited my turn, palms folded, the tiny candle trembling between my fingers.
When I reached the abbot, I offered my krathong prayer aloud, voice small under the chant. The old man murmured a blessing in Pali; his hand hovered over my bowed head, warm and steady. I felt the world sink into me—a wish for safety, a small washing of fear. It should have been enough.
Instead, when I straightened, the world sharpened in a way that made my breath stop.
He was standing by the side, half in shadow where a pillar kept the sun from touching him fully. Anurak.
Closer than that night, closer than lantern glow. He wore a simple shirt, sleeves rolled, and there was dust in his sandals as if he had been walking the footpath before dawn. He was not doing anything showy—simply watching, eyes on the hands folded loosely at his waist. He looked as if he belonged to the temple the way the teak beams belonged to the sky, as if he and this place had always been in conversation.
My mouth went dry. For an instant, I forgot to breathe. A ridiculous part of me wanted to laugh at the luck, at fate, at how a dream that had hovered in the dark had the gall to stand before me, alive and ordinary. Another part wanted to run across the courtyard and collapse against his chest to prove myself that he felt as warm as the dream had promised. I did neither.
Instead, I let the line thin again and moved to the pavilion where visitors received simple blessings: a light touch, a whispered chant, a string tied around the wrist to keep the wish tethered.