Kla was visibly shaken by what had happened in the practice room, though he'd tried to pretend otherwise. He'd had a gut feeling that Tan Phongthawat was someone important when they'd first locked eyes, but the feeling only intensified when Tan continued the tune. The same melody that haunted Kla's dreams.

He couldn't help but entertain the thoughts now crowding his mind. Picking up his guitar, he played it again. He let the sorrow engulf him, just as it did whenever he played this particular tune. The notes bled into the stillness of the room, each one aching with memory.

The melody echoed in his mind long after the strings had fallen silent. Kla closed his eyes and allowed his thoughts to drift, threading together the fragments of memories — memories that didn't belong to him, and yet they did. The bare walls of his dorm room faded. The still air thickened into heat. The concrete floor softened into stone. The scene shifted.

---

Summer, Rattanakosin Era, 1820

Kla Wichianchai, youngest son of Phra Wichianchai, walked near the outskirts of his family estate, trying to ease the storm in his mind. That morning, he'd been informed of his betrothal to Khunying Chanthira, a noble match arranged to strengthen their family ties.

It wasn't as though she was undesirable. Quite the opposite — she was beautiful, two years younger, graceful and intelligent. They'd grown up together. But Kla had never thought of her as anything more than a younger sister. There was no room in his heart for romantic feelings toward her — or any woman, for that matter.

His feet took him further than he'd meant to go, and he found himself near the banks of the Chao Phraya River. The sound of music drifted to him, delicate and haunting, plucked from the strings of a sueng. He paused. The melody seemed familiar. Impossible. And yet —

Drawn toward the music, he found himself standing before a frangipani tree, half-hidden by overgrown brush. Beneath it sat a young man with sun-kissed skin, black hair tied loosely back, and eyes fixed on his instrument. He played with closed eyes, humming softly.

Kla stood a short distance away, quietly enthralled.

"That was beautiful," Kla finally said when the tune ended.

The young man looked up with a slight, amused smile. His black eyes sparkled in the dappled sunlight. "No one has ever listened to the full song before."

His voice was like a breeze — warm and gently disarming.

"Why not?" Kla asked, confused. The piece was captivating, unforgettable.

The young man chuckled. "Father wants me to play the ranat ek," he said. "He doesn't really approve of the sueng. Says it’s too simple. Not noble enough."

Kla digested this quietly. Nobility had a way of clinging to appearances, to things that would uphold legacy. And yet this music, in its rawness, felt more real than anything he'd heard at court.

"Do you play often?" Kla asked.

"Only when I'm free." The young man offered a shrug. "And hidden."

"I like the sueng too," Kla admitted. He stepped closer and settled beside him on the grass. "Father agreed to hire a tutor if I agreed to the betrothal." His voice turned wistful.

"You're to be married?" The young man didn't sound surprised. Nobles often arranged marriages early.

Kla nodded. "To Khunying Chanthira. She's like a sister to me. I don't want her trapped in a loveless marriage. I'm sure she'd feel the same."

He didn't add the rest.

The rest being that since he was young, his heart had never been drawn to women. It had always been men — the lines of their hands, the cadence of their voices, the quiet steadiness of their presence.

Being with another man wasn't illegal, not exactly. It happened quietly, behind closed doors, in poetry and shadows. But noble families preferred silence. They preferred their sons to marry and produce heirs, to maintain face, to keep the rumors away.

People like Kla were meant to live quietly. Alone.

The young man seemed to understand. His gaze softened, respectful. He didn't push further. Instead, he said, "You said you wanted to learn?"

Kla blinked. "Learn?"

"To play." He gestured to the sueng, smiling. "Come. I'll teach you."

Gratitude bloomed in Kla's chest. He moved closer. And together, under the low-hanging frangipani blossoms, they played.

As dusk turned the river gold and the breeze picked up, Kla finally stood. "I should return." His voice caught. "I hope we meet again. But... I don't even know your name."

The young man's smile widened, as if he knew a secret Kla didn't.

"We'll meet again," he said simply.

And Kla believed him.

---

Present, Bangkok – XX Dorm

Kla blinked as his surroundings shifted back into the fluorescent-lit quiet of his dorm room. The weight of the melody still lingered in his chest. He reached for his composition book and softly hummed the tune again — just like the boy under the frangipani tree had once done.

He glanced at the group assignment list on his desk. Tan Phongthawat's name stood out. And in his mind, the ghost of laughter — eerily like the young man's — echoed.

"P'Chan."

He whispered the name. It felt both familiar and forbidden. A name not meant to be said aloud. Not yet.

Could Tan really be P'Chan? Could the young man he remembered — whose face he'd never fully seen, whose name had never been spoken — be standing in front of him now in a different time, a different life?

Kla didn't believe in coincidences. Tan could never have continued the melody unless he knew it. But Tan hadn't reacted. Hadn't seemed to remember.

Maybe it was all a coincidence. Maybe not.

He let out a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration.

His gaze drifted to the window. The frangipani tree just outside was in full bloom. He hadn't noticed when the blossoms began to fall. Just like he hadn't noticed how much Tan's hands had trembled back in the music room.

Maybe some things didn't return all at once.

Maybe they came back in threads, soft and delicate, stretched tight across lifetimes — waiting to be woven back into place.