Tan found himself heading to the practice room earlier than the appointed time. He didn't have a concrete reason — only the need to clear the fog that had taken root in his mind. The melody had been haunting him like smoke: there, lingering in corners of his thoughts, but never something he could quite grasp.

He pushed open the door quietly, hoping to find Kla alone. But instead, Yu was already there, hunched over his phone, one leg bouncing erratically to a rhythm only he could hear.

Yu looked up hopefully at the sound of the door, but his expression fell the moment he saw who it was. Tan caught the flicker of disappointment before Yu masked it with a half-hearted grin.

"Expecting someone?" Tan asked, raising an eyebrow. "You're early today."

"Why, can't I come early?" Yu shot back, his voice a touch too defensive. He cleared his throat and tried again, lighter this time. "Maybe I'm just motivated today."

Tan didn't push. Yu would talk when he was ready.

The door creaked open a second time. Kla stepped inside, his gaze landing first on Yu, eyes narrowing slightly in confusion. Then his gaze shifted to Tan, and his features smoothed into something unreadable — guarded.

As Kla moved past him, a scent hit Tan like a wave.

Faint.

Sweet.

Sharp.

Like crushed petals soaked in river mist.

Frangipani.

Tan blinked. There were no trees nearby. No flowers in the room. Yet the scent clung to Kla like a whisper of something long forgotten — and it unsettled him more than it should have.

"You changed your perfume?" Yu asked before Tan could. "Smells nice."

Kla smiled faintly. "I like the scent of frangipani," he said, eyes meeting Tan's for a beat too long. He wasn't just answering Yu — he was watching Tan's reaction.

Yu noticed the glance and felt a sharp twinge of something he couldn't name. Irritation bloomed beneath his ribs, unjustified and persistent. He looked away.

Tan cleared his throat, breaking the silence. "We'll be working on lyrics today," he said, then turned to Yu. "Don't you have student council duties?"

"Why are you always trying to chase me off, huh?" Yu retorted, arms crossed. "Aren't you the one who always says I don’t contribute enough? Now that I’m here early and eager, you want to kick me out."

"Let him stay," Kla interjected calmly, sensing the tension. "It might help with his singing later if he knows the tone we’re going for."

Yu grinned and stuck out his tongue at Tan before returning to scroll through his phone.

Tan sighed. It looked like whatever conversation he had hoped to have with Kla would have to wait.

He pulled out his guitar and composition book, settling next to Kla. As they began to brainstorm lines for the melody, the haunting tune filled the room again, laced with melancholy. The lyrics flowed with startling ease, too naturally. It unsettled Tan, but he didn’t let it show. There was something about composing with Kla that felt like slipping into a rhythm that had always existed, waiting to be remembered.

As the tune floated between them, fingers brushing strings, words began to form. Tentative at first. Then clearer. Tan tapped his pencil thoughtfully against the page.

"How about something about… shadows?" he murmured.

"And silence," Kla added.

Without thinking, the line spilled from both their mouths at once:

"Tai ngao mai nai kheun ngiap-ngao…"

(Beneath the tree's shadow in a lonely night)

They both stopped.

The silence that followed wasn't awkward — it was thick, like the air had been pulled taut.

Tan looked at Kla. Kla looked at him.

The words echoed again, unspoken this time. A cold tremor curled up Tan's spine, and he saw Kla's fingers tremble slightly above the strings. For a moment, he felt like a wire deep inside him had been plucked, vibrating with something unspoken.

Then Kla gently corrected a note on the guitar and said, almost absently, "The tune's off, P'Chan…"

Tan stilled.

The name echoed in his skull like a stone dropped in deep water.

"…What did you say?" he asked, voice low.

Kla's eyes widened slightly. "I… I didn't mean to…" he mumbled, his voice faltering.

Yu sat up straighter. "Wait — who's P'Chan?"

Neither of them answered. Tan didn't even seem to hear him.

The name curled like smoke in Tan's chest — familiar, intimate, and completely out of place. He could see Kla's hands shaking now, his expression torn and open in a way Tan had never seen before. In those dark eyes was something deep — like a sorrow that had waited lifetimes.

Suddenly, a strange pressure built in Tan's ears. The room felt distant, like he was underwater. His breath hitched as an overwhelming sensation surged up his spine — water, rushing, closing over skin. Cold and endless. He could almost feel it drown him.

He stood up abruptly.

Gathered his things with stiff, mechanical movements.

And walked out without a word.

Kla's lips parted, as if to call after him — but no sound came.

Yu turned to Kla, mouth open. "What the hell was that about?" he asked, but Kla didn't respond. His hands were trembling now in earnest, eyes rimmed red.

He hastily packed his things and left too, nearly tripping over the guitar case in his rush.

Yu was left alone in the practice room, stunned and wordless.

---

Tan drove fast.

As though speed might leave the memories behind — or force them into focus.

He didn't know which he wanted.

By the time he reached his condo, his hands were clenched tight around the steering wheel, and his breath came in shallow bursts. He stripped off his clothes and stepped into the bathroom, turning the faucet until the water ran nearly scalding. He submerged himself until the tips of his ears burned and his skin flushed red.

Still, it wasn't enough.

He pressed his head against the edge of the tub, eyes closed. But the scent of frangipani lingered in his mind like a specter.

That line they had spoken together. That name.

P'Chan.

The syllables pressed into his chest like a bruise. He didn't know who P'Chan was.

But he couldn't shake the feeling that someone had just called him by his true name.

---

The dreams came again.

But this time, they were sharper — like glass slipping beneath his skin.

He was sitting beneath a tree by the riverbank, moonlight painting the water in silver. Beside him was a younger boy, his face half-shrouded in shadow. They weren't speaking, but their silence was full — weighted. The melody floated through the air, played on some unseen instrument.

Then the boy turned to him.

And spoke.

A single whispered sentence — gentle, grieving, full of longing.

The words melted into the melody, which curled like smoke around Tan's ears.

A warm touch. Lips brushing his own. A goodbye that didn't feel like an ending.

---

Tan's eyes flew open.

He sat up with a gasp, chest heaving, heart pounding like a trapped bird.

His pillow was damp. So were his cheeks.

He touched his face, bewildered.

He hadn't known he was crying.

His breath hitched again as that same, unnameable grief pressed down on him, curling deep into his chest.

That voice in the dream — soft and familiar.

That name.

P'Chan.

He didn't know who the boy under the tree was.

He didn't know why the song made him want to cry.

But somewhere deep inside —

He knew that voice was calling him home.