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Pharan sweeps the steps of the temple before smoothing out white sand over the landing, just like he has been doing for the last half-century.
This morning feels different, though. He was woken up from a shallow sleep by a sudden itch in right ear. If he was bit by something it didn't leave a mark. That in itself could be a welcome distraction from the pain in his knees, but all his ghosts have also been strangely silent and keeping their distance.
All but one. Pharan can hear the creaking stairs and the quick, sure steps of someone running on the ground.
It's not until late afternoon when he sees him. Through a window in the library he catches a glimpse of a young man sitting on the balustrade, swinging his legs carelessly as wind plays in his hair. There's something awfully familiar about his silhouette.
The apparition is gone by the time Pharan shuffles outside. He finds a durian pit laying near the spot. It's probably just a trick of light, but it looks like there are old, faded letters on it.
Even though he hadn't had the fruit in years, the memory is so vivid now he can feel the taste of caramel spreading over his tongue.
Pharan takes the pit with him and puts it next to his bed before making the last round - herding the chickens, watering the plants, blowing out the candles one by one. He takes out the trash too, wanting to spare Jet the trouble when he visits in a couple of days. The last person still remembering that the old recluse who only talks with ghosts once lived here with a lover.
Birds are loud with their evening hymns as he enters the study, but he hears it - another voice, a quiet laughter coming from the balcony. The visitor must be waiting on the other side of the wall.
Careful not to startle him, Pharan starts emptying the drawers and arranging documents upon his desk. The ghost moves anyway, smiling as he passes by the window, squinting one eye against the sunset. Red light catches in his small earring, stirring some painful longing in Pharan's chest.
There has to be a reason for his presence here.
He'll learn the answer soon.
Pharan opens the mosquito net around his bed and lies down, gazing at the stars.
They look especially bright tonight. He can see them blinking through the ceiling, too.
It's kind of strange, how he knows all their names and secret routes but can't recognise his own hand reaching up to them. It's not an old man's hand and it should weigh something, he's pretty sure.
His legs are so light too, not even touching the floor, suddenly as pointless as the walls he flickers through. He stops near the entrance overlooking the stairs. Someone has left fresh footprints in the sand.
"Jingna," the ghost whispers into his ear. Warm air brushes over his skin, smelling of vanilla. Pharan realises that's how his kisses used to taste, too.
"You had me waiting for so long…" Thongkam slips his warm hand into his.
Pharan runs his thumb over the inside of it, not even sure why until he finds thin, deep scars left there by the thorns. They start disappearing slowly under his touch.
"I'm sorry, love." He turns to watch Thongkam smile. How beautiful he looks in the golden sun. How could he have forgotten his face?
Where did the night go, Pharan doesn't know. He threads their fingers together tightly. They won't get lost again. "We can go now."