Beneath the eaves of the northern wing of the Sirarom Pavilion, the morning breeze drifted lazily from the river, brushing against the silk threads on the loom. But it could not cool the flame burning within one woman’s chest.
Buakesa sat weaving in silence, shrouded in the dappled sunlight and shadow of the wooden beams. She had not moved from her seat since the dawn of the previous day. Through the passing night, the fading stars, and the returning sun—she remained still, as though part of the shadows themselves.
Her once-rosy lips had dried and cracked. Her eyes were rimmed red. The delicate hands that had never touched anything rougher than a brush or mirror now gripped the loom shuttle so tightly that blood seeped from her fingers.
“Ai… I love you. I love you so much I can’t sit still anymore…”
She murmured like a chant—an incantation of longing. Every tug of thread mirrored her trembling heart, a heart suffocated beneath the towering presence of a man who never saw her.
It ached. It burned. But she would not yield—not just to win a weaving contest, but to prove to Prince Rachasihwong that she… and she alone… deserved to be seen.
But you don’t know… my heart isn’t soft enough to settle for just that.
Buakesa’s love was not tender—it was consuming. Clinging. It devoured her from the inside, like bitter dye soaking through fine silk.
She wept as she wove. Wove with pain. Every thread struck was a vow:
“Let no woman hold his heart but me.”
“Let no voice echo in his soul but mine.”
“Let no eyes meet his gaze longer than mine ever did.”
Blood dripped from her fingertip onto the silk—dark red upon deep crimson. The fabric now bore not only thread… but the heart of a woman who wove not for love, but for possession.
The North Pavilion quivered not from noise… but from the silence of a woman refusing to surrender—even to feelings that may never have belonged to her at all.
And in that silence… a curse began to weave itself, thread by thread…
Whispers stirred within the inner palace. Behind thick curtains and between the murmurs of maids, one phrase floated upward:
“The daughter of Phapang has not returned to her chambers… for three nights.”
The words traveled up—reaching the ears of Queen Inthranil, seated high in her palace chamber.
“Not returned?” she repeated softly, setting down her sandalwood fan upon her lap.
“Has she eaten at all?”
“Has she taken any nourishment?”
“The night maids say… they’ve not seen her dine at all, Your Majesty,” one attendant replied.
The Queen was silent for a long moment before turning to another court lady nearby.
“Send word to Prince Rachasihwong. Tell him to go and see her—at once.”
Back in the northern pavilion, Buakesa still sat unmoved before her loom. Her eyes were red, her hair unpinned and falling. Her robes were stained with fallen silk fibers. Her fingers… still gripped the shuttle with exhaustion. Blood welled again from cracked fingertips, leaving dark dots upon the wooden frame.
Footsteps echoed gently through the silent pavilion. The outer doors opened.
A figure stood in clean, pale blue silk—Prince Rachasihwong.
He paused in the doorway for a moment, then spoke softly into the hush:
“My lady… come out from the pavilion. It is I, Rachasihwong.”
His voice fell like dew into the quiet.
Buakesa looked up sharply, startled. But when she saw him… her expression shifted into a joy too intense to hide.
“Your Highness…” her voice trembled.
“I am weaving the most beautiful cloth… just for you.”
The Prince stepped closer, kneeling gently before her. He reached for her hand, his thumb brushing over a fingertip slick with blood.
“Your hands… what have you done to them?”
“I—I didn’t want to lose…” she whispered.
“I wanted your heart…”
He was silent, then pulled a white cloth from his sash and began to wrap her hand with care.
“No cloth is beautiful… if its weaver is in pain.”
“You must rest now… my lady.”
Buakesa’s eyes brimmed. She folded her hands weakly before her.
“You… are too kind to me…”
He nodded, then gently helped her rise. Together, they walked through the halls—past the watchful eyes of court ladies, down corridors, across wooden bridges.
From behind a veil in the shadows of the Phapang residence… someone stood still.
Kham In.
He stood at the head of the stairs, eyes fixed on the sight before him. No questions. No fury. No words. Just watching… as though he didn’t even dare look fully—his gaze remained low, too afraid to face even his own heart.
As the Prince passed, he paused.
His eyes flicked toward the familiar figure—just a breath away. A servant in silence.
For a moment, his hand, still cradling Buakesa, trembled slightly… as if it wished to reach the other. But he said nothing.
He simply looked. And walked on—carrying a quiet heaviness in his chest.
Buakesa leaned against his shoulder. Her breath was warm against his ear.
“Thank you, Ai… for bringing me home.”
The Prince did not reply—only gave her the faintest of smiles.
The footsteps faded.
Kham In stood still. Only after the last echo vanished did he raise his eyes—just halfway. His eyes were still red.
He smiled. Just a little.
He didn’t know if it was for the image he’d just seen…
Or to convince himself that he was… alright.
No words passed his lips. Only a breath—
Uneven. Quiet.
Like the breath of a silkworm that may never become the butterfly it dreams to be.
After Prince Rachasihwong escorted the frail daughter of Phapang back to her quarters and quietly departed, Buakesa, now reclined on an ornate teak chaise, felt the embers of her strength begin to rekindle.
Her hand was still bandaged. But her heart beat faster—not from pain, but from the image that lingered in her mind: the Prince, kneeling… gently tending to her wounds.
“He’s seen me. He truly has... finally.”
She whispered to herself, lips curling in a faint smile—one lit with fierce certainty.
She sat upright.
“Kaew, summon Kham In.”
When he arrived, she turned to him with a voice wrapped in silken control.
“I must finish this fabric. It must be… flawless. For him.”
She stared straight into Kham In’s eyes and said calmly:
“And I have found a way to make it so.”
The next morning, Buakesa requested a private audience with Queen Inthranil at the Siriarun Pavilion. She bowed gracefully before the Queen, eyes shining with unwavering intent.
“Your Majesty… in the name of decorum and the dignity of my house,
I humbly request a screen to be placed around my weaving pavilion—so that no other may view the pattern until the day of presentation.”
The Queen listened in stillness for a moment. Then she replied softly:
“A woven cloth is the voice of the heart.
If concealment helps you weave more purely… then let the screens be raised.”
With the Queen’s decree, no court official dared object.
To preserve fairness, screens were placed around all five pavilions.
But within the North Pavilion… something was being hidden—something no one else could know.
That night, under the pale glow of the moon, Kham In stood in Buakesa’s dressing chamber—clad in crimson silk, his frame draped in sheer sashes, a veil covering his face.
Kaew, in the corner, whispered without thinking:
“You… you look just like a daughter of the realm…”
The words hadn’t finished before Buakesa turned sharply, hurling her fan—Kaew ducked just in time.
“Shut your filthy mouth! He’s nothing but a servant. Don’t you dare.”
She turned back to Kham In, who now bowed his head in silence.
“If you don’t do this… your mother won’t live to see her old age.”
Kham In nodded quietly. His footsteps were light…
But his heart… heavier than stone.
Tonight, the one who would step into the Sirarom Pavilion
Was no longer Buakesa—
But the shadow of a man
Carrying love, pain, and fate in his hands.
Veil secured tightly, Kham In walked silently through the garden, staying low beneath hedges.
When he reached the North Pavilion, the lanterns still glowed. Two palace guards stood at the entry.
One narrowed his eyes.
“Late at night… Are you truly Lady Buakesa?”
“May we kindly ask you to lift your veil, milady?”
Kham In froze. His heart pounded like a drum. If they found out…
It wouldn’t just be him. His mother. The entire household. All could face punishment.
Suddenly—
“Lady Buakesa is unwell… but she insisted on weaving through the night.
I know this well.”
Prince Wihokrat stepped out from the shadows.
His voice was polite, but his eyes gleamed with mischief.
“Let’s not offend a noble daughter of Phapang.”
He gave a courteous nod to the guards.
“Allow her to pass. I will vouch for her.”
The guards hesitated, then stepped aside respectfully.
Kham In bowed, grateful—but still shaking—then entered the pavilion.
As he passed, Wihokrat murmured:
“I recognized you by the way you walk. Don’t worry…
I’ll keep your secret.”
Kham In gave a faint glance—no words, only a small bow—then stepped fully into the North Pavilion.
Inside, the loom sat under the soft light of a hanging lamp. The crimson silk shimmered faintly.
At first glance, the cloth appeared beautiful.
But as he looked closer… he saw signs of strain. Warped threads.
Bloodstains.
He stood for a long moment.
Then slowly… sat before the loom.
His slender hands brushed the roughened threads,
And in his heart… something new began to stir.
“Ai… If this cloth is fate…”
“Then I will weave it… with my own hands.”
The midnight wind stirred the gauze curtains around the North Pavilion.
The soft clack of the shuttle filled the quiet.
Kham In, cloaked in Buakesa’s silks, held the loom with trembling hands.
The cloth she had left behind remained—deep crimson, stained with blood.
He laid his hands over the unfinished pattern, heart aching—not from fear of being discovered…
But from the sorrow woven into the fabric itself.
“What did you weave into this, Buakesa?
Bitterness… fear… or love?”
The shuttle struck again.
He began to weave—his part, his thread.
Though the cloth would bear another’s name,
His heart would be in every strand.
The moon arced high. Footsteps of passing guards echoed faintly in the distance.
No one suspected that the “daughter of Phapang,” behind the curtain tonight…
Was not who she seemed.
Under the shadow of leaves,
Only one figure remained…
Weaving in silence—
As though the world held only silk, breath… and memory.
That very night, as new threads stretched taut across the loom,
As his hands pulled line after line…
A shadow stood still beneath the Sarapee tree beside the Central Pavilion.
Prince Rachasihwong watched in silence.
Bathed in moonlight, veiled by wind…
He could only see the silhouette of “Lady Buakesa” seated at the loom.
And yet… something in that posture, that grace…
Felt too familiar.
He could not turn away.
Not because of the face—for he could not see it.
But because of a gesture,
A quiet rhythm,
That mirrored someone else entirely.
He stood there… unmoving.
Until long past midnight.
And then, without a word, he turned away,
Leaving behind only a breath…
And a glance never spoken.
One heart weaves in secret, beneath a borrowed name.
Another waits in silence, afraid to speak its own.
Two shadows—so close—divided by a breath.
What thread, in time… will stitch their souls together?
—
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