As I walk down the stone steps to the street, I feel something soft brush my shoulder. A frangipani petal. Or a hand.
She doesn’t look at me. She looks at the river. The same river she drowned in, the same river where her husband’s boat once floated, the same river that still carries the reflection of a world that asked her to leave but never showed her the door. pee mak temple
I came back to the wat because the city had too many edges. Too many neon signs that cut the sky. But here, under the ordination hall’s rust-red tiles, the air is thick as old breath. The monks chant in a frequency that vibrates in my molars. I close my eyes, and she is there. As I walk down the stone steps to
I sit on the cool stone floor. A novice monk, no older than fourteen, sweeps dried frangipani petals from the steps. He doesn’t look at the shrine. No one looks directly at it. Not for long. She doesn’t look at me
I open my eyes. The incense stick has burned down to a gray worm.