The dawn light filtered through the rice-paper window, dappling Ekan's bedroom floor in soft ochre. He lay motionless for a heartbeat, recalling the dream corridor and the slip of paper burning against his palm. His heart drummed so loudly he could hear it in his ears, as if it were warning him of some imminent fracture. He drew a slow breath, noting the faint metallic scent of last night's incense lingering in the air. Carefully, he slid the yellow slip from his pocket and reread the curling script: "When the candle flame burns backward, your shadow will fade."
Shaking off a tremor, he rose and dressed in comfortable black jeans and a faded ivory T-shirt stamped with sumi-ink brushstrokes—a souvenir from his last trip to Chiang Mai. He combed his hair with slow deliberation and caught sight of himself in the tall mirror: the faint redness around his eyes, the tense line of his jaw. In the hallway, the cicadas had already begun their low hum. He tucked the slip into the secret pocket of his satchel, then paused at the threshold to kiss the Buddha statue on the shelf—just a light touch of his forehead against cool brass.
Downstairs in the kitchen, sunlight slanted through the slats of the blind and warmed the old teak cabinets. Ekan measured out coffee beans from a glass jar, then ground them by hand, inhaling the rich aroma of roasted arabica that filled the narrow space. He boiled water in the battered kettle, the metal hissing in protest, and set it to bloom over the grounds. While the brew steeped, he toasted two slices of bread and spread them thinly with home-made mango jam—its sweetness a promise of simpler joys. On the table sat his sketchbook, its leather cover softened by hours of use.
Niran was still asleep when Ekan stepped into the bedroom to brush his hair one last time. He watched the slow rise and fall of Niran's chest, the soft curve of his lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. The slip of paper felt unnervingly warm in his pocket; he thought about telling Niran everything but swallowed the words. Instead, he pressed the back of his hand against Niran's arm and whispered, "I'll be home by sunset." Niran mumbled something dream-soft and turned over, clutching the pillow.
On the street, the morning bustle had already begun. Plumes of exhaust drifted from idling taxis, and the sizzle of vendors grilling pork skewers greeted him at the corner. A woman with a wicker basket piled high with bananas called out in a singsong voice, "Ripe, sweet, only ten baht!" He paused to select two green-tipped fruit, then tucked them into his satchel beside the sketchbook. It felt oddly comforting to hold something tangible amid the swirl of unease.
At the skytrain station, the heat radiating from the concrete platform made the air shimmer. Ekan boarded the 7:15 AM train and found a window seat, leaning his forehead against cool plexiglass. The city unfolded beneath him in shifting panels—jammed roadways, slick canal boats, a carpet of roofs punctuated by golden chedis and glass towers. He closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the fortune teller's words, then opened them again to watch his own reflection ripple alongside the passing skyline.
He arrived at campus just as the mahogany doors of the Fine Arts Building swung open. Friends clustered beneath the tamarind trees, comparing portfolios and planning group critiques. Supitcha waved him over, her brush-painted calligraphy drying on the table, while Arun brandished a new set of charcoal pencils. They teased Ekan about his sleepy eyes until laughter dissolved the tension knotting his shoulders. Professor Jirasak emerged from his office and greeted him with a nod, approving his morning sketch—an angular study of colonial friezes.
By mid-morning, Ekan excused himself to deliver a set of renderings to the University Gallery. The hallways were hushed, echoing with polished footsteps and distant strains of cello practice. He slipped the drawings into a lacquered tray and signed the registry, then stepped back into the glare of the afternoon sun. His stomach fluttered with nervous energy—he'd agreed to illustrate a promotional brochure for an upcoming exhibit on Thai-Chinese heritage. This commission might bring attention to his portfolio, but the deadline was daunting.
Lunchtime found him beneath the same frangipani where he'd eaten yesterday's tom yum. He peeled a banana, savoring its cool sweetness, and thumbed through the gallery brochure: gilded Buddhas in embossed relief, lacquered cabinets showcasing porcelain, photographs documenting Lingnan-style architecture. He pictured himself wandering through those halls alongside Niran, explaining each brushstroke's lineage. The day felt full and alive, and for a moment, the old warnings fell away.
At 1:30 PM, Ekan set out for his afternoon excursion: a solo study of Wat Arun's riverside silhouette. The river boat at Sathorn Pier rocked gently as he hopped aboard, camera and sketchbook in hand. A breeze off the Chao Phraya teased at his hair, carrying the scent of fish sauce mingled with cardamom from floating herb vendors. He chose a seat on the upper deck, propping his backpack against the railing, and began making quick pencil outlines of the temple's onion-shaped towers glinting in the sun.
The boat glided under the Rama VIII Bridge, its cables like strings holding up the sky. Ekan squinted, shifting his lines to catch the interplay of shadow and light on the white stucco. He felt a familiar prickling at the base of his skull—aday's worth of premonitions rolled into a single shivery pulse. He paused in mid-stroke and ran a fingertip along the blot of fresh ink on his palm. The slip of paper burned there, urging him to pay heed.
He folded the sketchbook closed, the pages brushing together like soft wings, and rose to lean over the railing for a better view. The wind whipped his shirt tight against his back. He glanced toward the riverbank: vendors packing up stalls, monks stepping into waiting taxis, tourists scrambling for tuk-tuks. Then the boat lurched as the river current sucked against a submerged piling. Ekan steadied himself with one hand, the other pressing over his heart.
A startled cry rose behind him. The boat driver slammed the engine into gear, throwing up a spray of water. Ekan stumbled, losing his grip on the railing. For a heartbeat he hovered—suspended between deck and rushing water—before gravity took hold. He pitched forward, arms instinctively reaching for anything to catch, but found only empty air.
The river swallowed him whole.
Cold shock paralyzed his limbs as he plunged beneath the churning surface. He blinked through strobing bubbles, the world reduced to rushing darkness. His lungs screamed for air, his arms flailed in blind panic, and the current yanked him toward the underside of the hull. He struck his shoulder against a jagged rib of metal, pain flaring like hot coals in his arm. He thrashed again, desperate for the taste of breath.
Above, the boat stuttered to a halt. Shouts echoed down to him—muffled and distant, as though from another world. A stray beam of sunlight pierced the water, illuminating a single white lotus petal drifting past. The slip of paper tore from his pocket and fluttered in the current, its script dissolving into wet ink. Acceptance bloomed in his mind: this was the end of his body's journey.
His consciousness slipped into stillness.
When Niran awoke the next morning, the sun was already burning through the curtains. He turned to find Ekan beside him but felt only cool sheets. The kettle from last night's tea was cold and empty on the nightstand, and the room smelled faintly of mango jam and coffee grounds—remnants of Ekan's habitual breakfast ritual. He reached out, brushing an empty space beneath the pillow, and the first tendrils of dread wound around his chest.
His phone lay silent on the floor. He pressed power, then unlocked it: no new messages, no missed calls. He tapped Ekan's name.