Dawn slowly unfolded from the silver veil of mist.
The first light of day filtered through the temple spires, yet no warmth returned to the world. The air remained cold—so cold, it felt as though Wiangphasorn had stopped breathing altogether.
By the sacred pond—
A tall figure, soaked in ceremonial robes, sat unmoving. He let the gentle wind kiss his pale face.
Prince Rachasiwong said nothing. He did not move. His eyes were red from crying through the night. The tears had long dried, but his heart felt hollow—as if carved out of his chest.
The guards stationed nearby remained still. No one dared speak—not even Prince Wihokrat, who stood with his head bowed, was able to offer comfort.
A royal decree had already arrived from the palace.
“The wedding ceremony… is canceled.”
The news swept through the city like a funeral bell. Citizens wept. The capital fell into an eerie silence, as if draped in mourning.
In the royal dungeon—
Lady Buakes sat shackled in a cold, bare cell. Iron chains bound her wrists and ankles. She was silent, as if she had already accepted the moment her fate was severed.
Her charges:
Dark enchantment upon a royal, and the murder of a high-ranking servant.
The sentence:
Death.
Outside the prison, guards rotated their shifts. The clinking of chains echoed each time she shifted even slightly.
Meanwhile…
By the sacred pond, Prince Rachasiwong still held Khamin’s lifeless body in his arms.
No one knew how long had passed.
His trembling hand gently rested against Khamin’s head. The boy’s wet hair stood lightly in the breeze.
The royal gong rang in the distance, announcing a new morning.
But for the Prince, time had stopped last night.
…
At the funeral ground by the pond—a place once reserved for the most sacred of royal ceremonies—
A modest pyre was built.
No lavish decorations. No grand procession.
Only the still body of Khamin, resting in peace upon a wooden platform. His figure, small and delicate, was wrapped in a clean white cloth. His face was serene, as though lost in a gentle sleep.
Beside him stood Prince Rachasiwong.
In his arms, the Singha-patterned sarong—once a symbol of their love—was held tightly to his chest.
He had not let go of it since dawn.
A conch shell blew, signaling the beginning of the rites. It was slow and mournful. Monks chanted softly—barely above the whisper of dawn’s cold breeze.
The Prince stared at the cloth in his hand. His grip tightened.
He had resolved to burn it with Khamin—to send it with him, to the next world.
As he stepped forward to place it upon the pyre—
A voice called out behind him.
“If you must burn… then not this cloth, Your Highness.”
Supimpa stood there in mourning attire, with Phenduern beside her. Their eyes were calm yet brimming with compassion.
Supimpa spoke gently, her voice firm.
“Khamin wove this cloth with love and hope. To destroy it would be a tragedy.”
“Please, keep it… let it remain as a token of his heart—entrusted to you.”
Prince Rachasiwong stood motionless.
His eyes trembled.
Then, slowly, he lowered the cloth—pressing it once more tightly to his chest, as if clinging to the last piece of him.
Supimpa and Phenduern approached the pyre. They knelt before Khamin’s still form. Silent tears fell.
Supimpa’s voice wavered as she whispered:
“Dearest friend… if there is another life beyond this one, may we find each other again.”
Phenduern added softly:
“And may you find true love, without separation… without tears.”
The scent of incense rose into the morning air, mingling with the soft warmth of sunlight.
The two women bowed deeply one last time, then stepped away. They glanced at Prince Rachasiwong with sympathy—then walked off without turning back.
And then the fire was lit.
Flames of orange and red slowly engulfed the pyre, as if time itself was burning the memory of their love in a single night.
Prince Rachasiwong stood in silence, unmoving before the fire. His hand clutched the woven cloth against his chest.
His eyes were bloodshot—but no more tears came.
Because his heart… had shattered completely.
He stepped forward, closer to the pyre. His breath trembled as he spoke—not to the living, but to the fire… to the ashes that would soon be all that remained of Khamin.
“Ai…”
“I promise to build a shrine here… in this very place…”
“So you will have a home. So I may remember you… until the day I follow you.”
His hand trembled, clutching the cloth. His eyes lowered. His lips curved into a faint, broken smile—knowing no vow would ever be more sacred than this one, spoken to a soul.
“Let this cloth… remind me always…
that I once loved you.
And I will love you until my own breath fades.
I swear before the heavens and earth…
If I am born again, I will find you.
And love you in every lifetime.”
The fire cracked softly—
as if Khamin was listening.
The morning breeze carried the Prince’s words into the sky…
and up toward the heavens.
The royal prison was quiet. The air in the cell was damp and cold. Moonlight shone faintly through a narrow slit high in the thick stone wall.
Lady Buakes sat alone in a dark corner. Her once-soft eyes were now dull—hardened, exhausted. The chains at her ankles clinked faintly whenever she moved.
She tilted her face upward, watching the moonlight seep through the slit. The shadow of the chain cast onto the stone floor—like a shackle not only of the body, but of her soul.
Kaew, her former handmaiden, stepped hesitantly into the cell. Her face was streaked with tears. She knelt before Buakes, trembling.
Buakes looked at her with a hollow gaze. Her lips twisted into a faint, bitter smile. She spoke quietly:
“Get up… Kaew.”
Her voice was wilted—like a dying flower breathing its last.
Slowly, Buakes unwrapped a cloth in her hands.
The Singha-patterned sarong she had once woven herself reappeared. She turned to Kaew and said:
“When I die… keep this cloth.”
“Pass it down to your children, and their children…
no matter how many generations pass…”
“Do not let it disappear from this world.”
Her voice was calm, yet full of something far too deep to name.
Kaew trembled. Her tears fell freely—mixing fear and sorrow in equal measure.
“I will, my lady… I promise…”
Her voice broke with sobs.
Buakes watched as Kaew quickly left the prison. Then she whispered her final curse:
“On this waxing moon night… I curse them!”
“I curse Prince Rachasiwong and Khamin—
that they shall never find happiness in love…
in any life that follows!”
“I shall haunt them through the ages—
until sky meets ash and earth crumbles—
until this cloth disappears from the world!”
And with that—
Buakes unwrapped the cloth once more, twisting it tightly into a thick loop. Her slender fingers tied the knot with precision. The soft rustle of silk whispered like frost across stone.
In the dead of night—
When all was silent, she used the sarong, woven with hatred, to fashion a noose.
She tied it securely to the old wooden beam in the prison.
Standing beneath it, her eyes glowed red—like a fire that would never extinguish. Her final words were not a prayer, but a curse:
“Let my spirit dwell in this cloth.
Let me wait for revenge.
Until their blood, their hearts—are no more.”
And then—
she kicked off the ground.
The sound of chains scraping stone rang one last time.
Her body hung motionless from the blood-red noose.
No struggle.
No redemption.
By morning—
The guards opened the cell door to find only a lifeless body swaying from the beam. The Singha-patterned sarong, with its pikoon floral motif, wrapped tightly around her throat.
When they removed her and laid her body down—
no one noticed the shadow behind the pillar.
A hand emerged quietly from the dark—
and snatched the sarong away into the shadows…
Without a trace.
The morning breeze carried the scent of incense from the funeral pyre…
but it was mingled with something darker—
the lingering stench of vengeance.
Fate’s shadow had only just begun.
…
After the tragedy that took Khamin from his world—
Prince Rachasiwong was never the same.
He vowed never to marry.
Never to love another.
He lived in silence—entombed in the grief of the man he lost.
King Silawet and Queen Inthranin, watching their beloved son suffer for so long—cursed, broken, hollow—felt only sorrow.
They ordered a sacred Bai Sri Su Kwan ritual, in hopes of cleansing his spirit and calling his soul home. The sounds of chanting, pin string instruments, and drums echoed into the evening breeze.
But still—
his soul did not return.
He remained lost in grief, unable to heal.
As time passed—
The royal council, fearing a future without an heir, appointed Prince Wihokrat—the younger brother—as Crown Prince in his stead.
Prince Wihokrat did not desire the throne. But out of loyalty, he accepted.
He married Lady Wilawan, a noblewoman of pure lineage from the southern provinces—graceful, honorable, and true.
Together, they bore children to continue the royal bloodline.
Prince Rachasiwong spent the rest of his days building a chedi shrine by the sacred pond—where Khamin had died.
It was a beautiful stupa, with a square lotus base and carved niches on all four sides. Serene, quiet, dignified—like the promise he made to the one he loved.
To him, it was sacred.
But the black magic that had once poisoned his soul had left lasting scars.
His health declined daily.
Before the shrine was even completed—
He passed away.
In the darkest of nights.
No moonlight.
No farewell.
By his side—
still lay the Singha-patterned sarong Khamin had woven.
He had never let it go.
King Silawet, his father, died soon after—his heart broken beyond repair.
Prince Wihokrat ascended the throne. He kept the sarong safe, passing it quietly through the generations.
Not as fabric—
But as a vow.
A vow that time could never erase.
It became a treasured heirloom of the bloodline of Wiangphasorn.
…
Generations passed.
The kingdom changed.
War came.
Wiangphasorn fell.
Its people were taken.
Its royals and nobles scattered.
The royal council dissolved.
The monarchy ended.
The land was absorbed into a new order.
Its language, its art, its customs—erased.
The shrine by the river, once a symbol of love, was left in ruin.
But the Singha-patterned sarong—
It remained.
Kept in secret.
Passed down through blood.
A silent oath:
That true love once existed.
And still… endures.
Even if kingdoms fall.
Even if kings vanish.
Even if Wiangphasorn fades into myth—
That thread of love… shall never break.
~ End of Past Life ~
An old shrine stands quiet in time’s decay—
Only a heart remains, still waiting for its name.
Though Wiangphasorn’s line has faded away,
My love stays steadfast… through shadow and flame.
Ashes blown in the morning breeze,
But vows of love shall never cease.
Though the world spins and times change pace,
My heart will not forget… our endless grace.
…
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