Chapter Text
"The most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or touched, they are felt with the heart."
Ling woke before the sun, the pale grey of early dawn settling across her bedroom like a thin blanket of quiet. Her alarm hadn’t gone off yet, not that it ever really needed to. For years now, her mornings had started on their own, shaped more by habit and necessity than choice. She lay there for a few seconds, breathing in the faint scent of jasmine drifting in through her half-open window, listening to the soft whir of the ceiling fan. These were the brief moments of her day untouched by emails, meetings, responsibilities, or the careful balancing act of motherhood.
In the kitchen, she switched on the espresso machine. The machine responded with its familiar hum, filling the calm with something steady and grounding. Ling took out the mug she always used, the cream-colored one, slightly chipped at the handle, the mug she’d had since university. It shouldn’t have lasted more than a few years, but somehow it had survived everything. She considered it her lucky mug, though she would never say so aloud.
Steam rose, the smell of espresso blooming into the air, and she closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the warmth.
A quiet thud echoed from the living room.
Ling didn’t need to check. She already knew.
Aom had migrated.
She smiled to herself and carried her mug with her as she walked into the living room. And there he was six-year-old Aom, an adorable, tangled mess of a child, blanket, and sofa cushions. His left arm was flung over his head, his right leg stuck out from under the blanket like he had been mid-battle in his sleep. He snored softly, face squashed against a pillow, hair standing in every direction.
Ling crouched beside him and gently tapped his foot. “Aom,” she whispered. “It’s morning.”
A long groan escaped him, muffled by the pillow. He buried his face deeper, as though he could sink inside it and disappear.
“You have school today,” she said, sipping her latte. “Time to get up.”
He didn’t move.
“Don’t pretend,” she added. “I know you’re awake.”
One eye cracked open suspiciously. “Five minutes,” he croaked.
“You said that yesterday.”
“And it worked,” he mumbled.
Ling laughed under her breath. “It didn’t. I carried you.”
Aom blinked slowly, processing this new information. His eyebrows furrowed, then he exhaled dramatically the kind of sigh that came from someone who had already lived too long and seen too much.
“Fine,” he said. “I will wake up. But only because today is art class.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Not because you love learning?”
“No,” he said plainly. “Learning is too much thinking.”
Ling shook her head, amused. “Come on, brave boy.”
At that, Aom perked up slightly. He liked being brave. Or rather, he liked being told he was brave. She handed him his small cup of warm milk, and he took it with both hands, copying her posture so precisely it made her chest ache in that soft, helpless way motherhood often surprised her with.
While he trudged off to brush his teeth, Ling stepped onto the small back patio. Her garden stretched softly under the morning light, jasmine vines climbing the fence, small potted herbs lined neatly near the wall, the faint scent of damp soil rising from last evening’s watering. A neighbor’s rooster crowed somewhere down the street, and another neighbor’s dog barked in response. A delivery motorcycle zipped past the entrance of the gated neighborhood.
The city was still waking up. Bangkok mornings always felt like a slow inhale before the day exhaled into chaos.
Her phone buzzed on the patio table.
Junji:
Boss lady. Tell me the slides are done. It’s too early for suffering. I don’t want to cry before my morning coffee.
Ling sighed and typed back.
Ling:
They’re done.
Another message arrived instantly, a dramatic sticker of a cat clutching a laptop and sobbing rivers.
Ling set her phone aside, shaking her head affectionately. Junji’s theatrics balanced out her own cautious, steady temperament. It worked somehow.
She finished her latte just as Aom emerged again, backpack in place, uniform loosely hanging on his still-sleepy frame. Ling knelt to tighten his collar and tuck in his shirt.
“New socks today?” she asked.
Aom lifted one foot eagerly. “Yellow!”
“And why are yellow socks special?” Ling asked, playing along.
He puffed out his chest. “Because yellow is brave.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes! Because bananas are yellow and bananas are brave.”
Ling stared at him for a full two seconds before giving up. “Okay,” she said gently. “Banana bravery.”
Satisfied, Aom grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the door.
They drove through their familiar route, passing the morning bustle of street carts and vendors setting up for the day, soy milk steaming in metal containers, aunties slicing fruit into neat portions, grills sizzling with moo ping. Aom pressed his forehead against the window, naming random objects as they passed.
“Car. Dog. Tree. Oh! Another dog. A sleepy man. Mee krob. Watermelon lady. A monk! Ma, look - a monk!”
Ling nodded, amused. “Yes, baby.”
“A monk with Nikes,” he added reverently.
By the time they reached Sathira Bilingual School, the sun had fully risen, casting a pale, warm glow over the courtyard. Parents milled around the entrance, shepherding their children inside with varying levels of urgency. Kids ran, laughed, shouted, clung to legs, or demanded snacks at 7:30 in the morning.
Ling held Aom’s hand as he wove through the crowd, greeting a few familiar parents she remembered from orientation day. Aom tugged her toward the notice board.
“Ma! Look, new stickers!” he said, tapping his finger rapidly against every single one.
Ling humored him, smiling softly as he examined each new addition like he was curating an art gallery.
They turned the corner toward his classroom when a small figure caught her attention. A little girl stood quietly near the doorway of the classroom, her tiny hands wrapped tightly around her backpack straps. Her ponytail was slightly crooked in a way that made Ling think she had tried very hard to get ready on her own. She clutched a penguin keychain white and blue, tiny, adorable holding it close to her chest.
Ling approached gently. “First day?”
The girl looked up with wide amber eyes, warm, soft, full of cautious curiosity. Something in Ling’s chest stuttered. Those eyes… familiar in the sense of recognition, familiar in a way that tugged at a long-noticed absence in her life. Soft amber, like someone she used to know. Before she could dwell on it further the girl nodded a tiny nod.
“You’ll do great,” Ling said, offering a reassuring smile. Not thinking too much about those eyes. Maybe she is hallucinating, well she does mostly run on caffeine, maybe it is finally catching up to her.
The girl blinked, processing the kindness carefully. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Before Ling could think more, a teacher called out, “Siri, inside please!”
The girl bowed her head once and hurried in.
Ling stayed kneeling for a moment longer than necessary then walked in with Aom. Amber eyes… No. She shook it off. She was being ridiculous. Memory ghosts appeared where there were none sometimes.
“Ma,” Aom said, breaking her inner monologue. “Shoelace.”
She shook off the feeling and knelt to fix his laces. Once he was settled in his classroom, she gave him a quick kiss on the forehead before leaving the hallway.
Orm’s morning had been anything but peaceful. She had woken to Siri curled up beside her sometime around dawn, clutching her penguin plush as if the move to Bangkok might reverse itself if she held on tight enough. Orm pressed a kiss to her daughter’s forehead before slipping out of bed, careful not to wake her.
Her new house was too big for her liking, too sleek, too polished, high-ceilinged, with windows larger than necessary. It was the kind of house that made a statement simply by existing, the kind her mother believed a CEO should have. Orm didn’t like statements. She preferred spaces that felt lived in, that carried memories, that weren’t afraid to be imperfect. But she understood her mother’s intention to make her return to Thailand feel like stability, not regression.
Still, she felt like a guest in her own home.
She made breakfast quietly soft omelettes, rice, and apple slices cut neatly to encourage Siri’s appetite. When Siri finally padded into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes, Orm coaxed her into eating little bites while assuring her that school would be okay.
“Maybe scary,” Siri said softly, tapping her apple slice against her plate as she spoke.
“Maybe,” Orm acknowledged. “But brave and scary can happen together.”
Siri thought about this, then nodded.
Before leaving, Orm checked her phone. A message from Miu waited on the screen.
Miu:
If you hide from me today, I’m kicking down your door.
Orm sighed.
Orm:
I’m not hiding.
Miu:
Then answer your phone when I call. Don’t make me haunt your house.
Orm rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at her mouth. Miu had been her friend since they were kids. Unlike other things in Orm’s life, Miu had remained steady. Loud, annoying, dependable.
She texted back.
Orm:
Siri’s first day. I might panic.
Miu:
I’ll bring cake.
Orm’s shoulders relaxed a little.
She dressed Siri, gently fixing her collar and smoothing down her crooked ponytail. Siri looked so small against the backdrop of the big, unfamiliar house. Orm squeezed her hand as they walked to the car.
“Are you scared?” Orm asked as she buckled her in.
“A little.”
“That’s okay. I am too”
On the drive, Siri looked out the window quietly, watching the city blur by bright storefronts, motorcycles weaving between cars, monks walking in bright orange robes, vendors preparing skewers of pork for the breakfast rush. She rested her cheek against the glass, tracing tiny circles in the air with her finger.
Orm arrived at the school slightly out of breath. She had been juggling too many morning tasks already, and now her phone buzzed nonstop in her pocket. She ignored it for the moment, focusing instead on the small hand holding hers.
Siri stayed close as they walked, her eyes wide at the noise and the unfamiliar brightness. When they reached her classroom door, Orm crouched to fix a loose strand
of hair behind Siri’s ear.
“You’ll be okay,” Orm whispered. “I’ll come get you after school.”
Siri nodded, a tiny movement.
Before Orm could walk her inside, her phone rang again, this time with her assistant’s name flashing insistently. A call she absolutely could not ignore.
Orm winced. “Sweetheart, Mama has to take this. Can you walk in? Your teacher is right there.”
Siri glanced inside. The teacher was smiling, waiting. Other children were putting their bags away. It felt… safe enough.
She nodded.
Orm kissed her forehead quickly. “I’ll see you soon, my heart. Go ahead."
The kids’ friendship began before any teacher noticed.
After the first activity, Siri returned to her seat carefully, trying to stay invisible. Aom plopped down beside her, immediately leaning in with the confidence of someone who had never experienced a moment of shyness in his life.
“What’s your favorite animal?” he asked.
She blinked. “Um… penguin.”
“That’s a good one,” he said, nodding solemnly. “Penguins don’t fall when they walk. I fall when I walk.”
Siri’s small eyebrows rose. “…I don’t think that is true.”
“It is,” he insisted. “But it’s okay. I’m fast. Fast people fall.”
Siri considered this logic very seriously, then nodded because she wasn’t sure what else to do.
During drawing time, Siri sketched carefully - a small house with a big sun and a penguin with an umbrella. Her strokes were neat and precise. Aom leaned over to look.
“WOW,” he whispered loudly. “That’s so good. Mine looks like a potato.”
Siri blinked. “…What did you draw?”
He showed her. She stared at it.
“…A potato,” she said softly.
“Yes!” Aom beamed. “It’s a robot potato. But also maybe a dinosaur potato.”
Siri hesitated, then giggled a tiny, surprised sound like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to laugh yet.
Aom’s face lit up.
That was the moment their friendship quietly sealed itself.
By the end of the school day, Siri no longer stood alone near the cubbies. She stood beside Aom, holding her penguin keychain in one hand and the star sticker he’d given her in the other. They waited for dismissal, feet swinging in the same rhythm without meaning to.
When Ling arrived for pickup, Aom sprinted toward her with enough force to knock her backward if she weren’t bracing for it.
“MA! I MADE A FRIEND!”
Ling laughed as she steadied him. “Really? That’s great, baby. What’s their name?”
“Siri!” he declared proudly. “She likes stars. And she told me my singing is wrong!”
Ling burst into laughter before she could stop herself. “She said what?”
“She said my tune is broken.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, brushing his hair aside. “She’s right.”
Aom gasped dramatically. “MA!”
Ling kissed his forehead. “I’m happy for you. Really.”
On the drive home, Aom narrated every detail of Siri’s existence her drawings, her soft voice, the way she held her pencil perfectly, the size of her eraser (“so tiny and cute, Ma”), the fact she spoke Thai “very carefully like she is picking up butterflies,” and how she smiled at him one time and it was “small but very powerful.”
Ling listened, heart warm the whole ride.
Orm arrived early, anxiety answering for her long before her words did. She peeked into the classroom, expecting to find Siri silent and overwhelmed.
Instead, she found her daughter carefully packing her bag while humming under her breath, not the same tune as earlier, but something soft and tentative. Siri’s small face brightened the moment she saw her mother.
“Mama,” she said, walking over. “I… made a friend.”
Orm’s chest tightened, relief flooding through her. “You did?”
Siri nodded. “A boy. Aom. He gave me milk.”
Orm tried not to cry at that very simple, very meaningful detail. “He sounds lovely.”
Siri nodded again.
On the drive home, Siri spoke a little more than usual, describing how Aom talked a lot, sang loudly, drew something that looked like a potato, and told everyone he was fast even though he fell down once.
“He made the room… less scary,” Siri said softly.
Orm reached over and squeezed her hand. “I’m happy, sweetheart.”
That evening, Ling cooked ginger soup while Aom practiced writing his name at the kitchen island. He hummed as he wrote, stopping only to tell her, “Ma, Siri writes so so so neat. Like a straight-line robot.”
“Is that good?”
“Yes! She is very tidy. I am not tidy.”
Ling chuckled. “You are… creatively messy.”
Aom grinned, proud of the compliment even though he clearly didn’t understand it.
At Orm’s home, Siri organized her crayons into perfectly aligned rows before dinner. Orm burned her tongue on hot tofu soup for the third time that week.
“Mama,” Siri said halfway through eating, “tomorrow… can I sit next to Aom?”
“You want to?”
“Yes.” A soft smile escaped her. “He makes school… okay.”
Orm swallowed the warmth rising in her chest. “Then of course you can.”
Siri ate with renewed calmness.
When Orm tucked her into bed later, Siri whispered, “Mama… Bangkok is okay.”
Orm froze at the doorway, breath catching. It was the first time she had heard her daughter say anything hopeful about the move. “I’m glad,” Orm whispered back.
That night, Ling sat in her garden with a cup of tea, the jasmine scent wrapping around her like an old friend. Aom was asleep upstairs, curled around his stuffed dinosaur as though it were the only thing anchoring him to the world.
Ling thought briefly of the girl with the amber eyes. Something about her had tugged at a distant corner of her heart, something she didn’t allow herself to name.
Across the city, Orm stood on her balcony, arms resting against the cold metal railing. Siri had made a friend. Her first day hadn’t broken her. It had soothed her instead.
Orm inhaled slowly, letting the night air settle into her lungs.
Both mothers, in their separate homes, felt their hearts ease in ways they hadn’t expected.
Both children fell asleep dreaming of new friendships.
A spark had returned.
Not yet seen.
Not yet recognized.