Tan Kai woke to the absence of sweat—and it hit him like a quiet jolt. No clammy film on his back, no parched throat from mid-scream gasps, no pulse hammering like a trapped bird. Instead: his tattered jacket weighted on his chest, sunlight slanting through the temple's broken roof, gilded streaks dappling his palms. Warm. Soft. Like the sun dared touch him without startling him awake.
He lay still, drinking in the silence like drought meeting water: a myna's trill, wind sighing through vine-tangled walls, water dripping from a chipped tile into a stone puddle. Peaceful. For a second, he couldn't recall waking to anything but terror.
His eyes adjusted. Dust motes swirled like ghosts in the light. A half-broken stone Buddha sat in the corner, face worn smooth, one hand raised in calm—almost mocking, given all he'd endured. Cobwebs strung the rafters; the air smelled of old wood, damp earth, faint jasmine. He shifted, muscles aching—hard as the bench was, it beat the bamboo grove's damp, the gang's cold concrete. Beat anywhere he'd been in years.
Sleep had been a battlefield for years. Nightmares didn't haunt—they devoured. Black Scorpion gang members, bandanas hiding their faces, machetes glinting as they chased him. His mother's desperate voice, her face dissolving into mist. His father turning away at the temple gate, robes fluttering, refusing to look back. Every dawn, he'd jolt upright, heart ready to burst, lungs burning, convinced someone waited to drag him away. He learned to wake ready—to run, to fight, to vanish.
But last night? Nothing. No screams, no shadows, no cold hands grabbing his ankles. Just silence deep enough to leave him rested—bones finally still, the fear coiled around his chest loosened, if only for a while. He flexed his fingers, waiting for dread to crash down. It didn't. Sunlight stayed warm. The myna sang on. For the first time in forever, Tan Kai breathed.
He sat up slow, spine creaking, and swung his legs over the bench. Cold stone bit his bare feet—good, sharp, real. Proof he was awake. His head felt clear, no fog of fear, no gnawing hunger (not yet). He crossed to the altar, where his last food lay. Throat tight, he remembered scavenging it from a village stall, slipping away before the vendor noticed.
The banana leaf was crumpled but intact. Inside, cold sticky rice clumped, coconut cream stiffened into wax. He bit into it—dry, less creamy, but sweet nutty flavor burst on his tongue. He chewed slow, savoring each bite like a feast. Days without eating had left hunger gnawing his insides; this was enough. Enough to keep going.
He brushed crumbs from his frayed shirt, folded the leaf into his pocket, and stood. Joints popped as he stretched. His feet ached—stones cutting his soles, thorns pricking his ankles, mud seeping between his toes from yesterday's run. But it didn't sting like punishment. It was a gift: You ran. You survived. You're here.
He pushed open a rotting temple door. Wood creaked; he froze, ears pricked. Nothing but wind, myna, drip. He leaned into the frame. Morning mist coiled around mango trees, thin as the veiled woman's saree—the woman who'd found him last night. Air smelled of damp earth, fresh grass, jasmine. He breathed deep, and almost smiled.
Then his fingers brushed the ivory lotus pendant at his neck, cold as it had been since his mother pressed it into his palm, shaking, before she vanished. A memory hit: last night, in the dark, the pendant had warmed. Carved petals glowed soft gold. The woman's whisper, as she handed him rice: You'll find out. Soon.
"Find out what?" he muttered, kicking a stone into the mist. It vanished. "Where Mom is? Why Dad left? What this pendant is?" Frustration edged his voice—years of loneliness, of being hunted. The mist didn't answer.
He turned to go inside, then saw it: white silk fluttering in vines on the temple wall, the same hue as the woman's clothes. His heart skipped. He stepped closer, bare feet sinking into damp earth, and pried the vines apart. Thorns pricked; he didn't care. Tied to the silk was a folded note, rough brown paper, neat black ink.
His hands trembled as he unfolded it. Thai—Mrs. Li, his old neighbor, had taught him that, back when he had a home. He read slow:
The Black Scorpions won't come here. Stay till noon—they'll search the west woods first. At sunset, go east. Follow the river that bends like a lotus petal. It leads to the Ironwood Forest. Wait for the moon before you enter. Trust the pendant when it warms.
No name. No explanation. But Tan Kai knew who'd sent it. He folded the note, tucking it next to the pendant in his pocket—like together, they held answers.
The river that bends like a lotus petal. Old Mr. Tan, the fisherman, had spoken of it, months before the fever took him. A hidden path, he'd said. Only shows to those who need to find what they've lost. Back then, it was a story. Now, it was a lifeline.
Tan Kai glanced up. The sun climbed higher, burning off mist. Mango leaves glistened; jasmine sharpened. Noon was hours away—too long to wait, too long to fear the gang would find him. But waiting felt impossible. The note was a thread, pulling him east, toward the river, toward his mother's secret.
He snatched his jacket, slinging it over his shoulder. It smelled of smoke, earth, his mother's kitchen. He patted his pocket—note, pendant—and breathed deep. The pendant stayed cold, but he didn't mind. It would warm when he needed it. The woman wouldn't lead him wrong.
He stepped into the morning light. Bare feet hit the earth, slow then fast. Mist faded, the world bright. The myna sang louder, like a cheer. For the first time in years, Tan Kai didn't feel like he was running. He felt like he was going home.
Eastward he went, bare feet thudding against packed earth. The morning sun climbed higher, baking the back of his neck, but he didn't slow—not with the note burning in his pocket, not with the pendant's cold weight against his chest. He'd walked barely a mile when it hit him: a scream, sharp and desperate, cutting through the hum of crickets.
"Help! Please—someone help!"
Tan Kai skidded to a halt. The voice came from the thicket ahead, shrill with fear. His hand twitched to the pendant, then dropped. No time to hesitate. His feet kicked up dirt as he sprinted, branches slapping his cheeks, thorns snagging his frayed shirt.
There, in a clearing, a hole yawned—deep enough that the woman at the bottom looked tiny, her arms windmilling as she clung to the mossy edges. Her face gaunt, clothes frayed to threads, a bundle of wilted herbs crushed in her fist. When she saw him, her eyes widened, bright with tears.
"Thank the gods—please, get me out!" she cried, voice trembling.
Tan Kai dropped to his knees at the edge. The hole was narrow, its sides slippery with mud. He stretched his arm down, fingers brushing hers. "Grab on tight. I'll pull you up." She wrapped both hands around his wrist—her palms calloused, nails broken—and he heaved, muscles burning. With a final grunt, he hauled her onto solid ground.
She collapsed beside him, gasping, dirt streaking her cheeks. "I can't thank you enough, young man. I—" Her voice cracked. She held up the herbs, leaves wilted, stems bent. "My son. He's five, burning with fever. We have no money for the healer. These… these were supposed to help. I found them, but when I turned to leave…" She gestured at the hole, shoulders slumping. "Stupid, clumsy me. But I'm unhurt—thank the stars."
Tan Kai stared at the herbs, then at her. The way her hands shook, the dark circles under her eyes, the way she kept glancing toward the distant village—like she feared every second away from her son. It hit him, sharp and raw: the same fear he'd felt for his mother, the same helplessness when there was nothing to give.
His hand moved to his pocket, fingers fumbling around the crumpled bills—the ones the veiled woman had slipped him last night, pressed into his palm with a quiet "For what comes next." He pulled them out, all of it, and held them out to her.
Her eyes went wide. She shook her head, pushing his hand away. "No, no—I can't take that. You need it more than I do, look at you—"
"Take it." His voice was firm, no room for argument. "For your son. He needs the healer, not wilted herbs."
She hesitated, lip quivering. The bills were crumpled, not much, but enough—enough to buy medicine, enough to ease her fear. Slowly, she took them, clutching them to her chest like they were gold. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she bowed her head, again and again. "May the gods bless you. May they guide you wherever you're going."
Tan Kai forced a small smile, pushing himself to his feet. "Go to him. Hurry."
She didn't need telling. She gathered her herbs, tucked the money into her waistband, and ran—slow at first, then faster, her shadow
disappearing into the trees, her grateful cries fading behind her.
He watched her go, then let out a breath. His pocket felt lighter, but his chest didn't. For a second, he thought of his mother—would someone have helped her, when she was alone? Would someone have given her a lifeline?
He shook the thought away. No time to linger. The sun was climbing, and the river waited. He adjusted his jacket on his shoulder, patted the note and pendant in his pocket, and turned east.
His feet hit the dirt again, steady now. No longer running from the past—but toward something. Toward answers. Toward the river that bent like a lotus petal, and whatever waited beyond it.
From this chapter on, I adjusted some names due to pronunciation. Sorry for the change—the story itself is untouched.