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.
I came to pray for peace. Instead, I find myself praying to her. pee mak temple
As I walk down the stone steps to the street, I feel something soft brush my shoulder. A frangipani petal. Or a hand. I came back to the wat because the city had too many edges
I don’t turn around.
Because if you do—if you really do—you see the space around her shape. A slight warp in the light. A cold that doesn’t come from the river breeze. The sound of a woman sobbing, not in grief, but in hunger . Not hunger for rice. Hunger for an apology that never came. The monks chant in a frequency that vibrates in my molars
This is where the abbot stopped her. Not with exorcism. With love . He shaved her skull, gave her a white robe, and told her: You are no longer his wife. You are no longer a ghost. You are just suffering. And suffering has a place here.