Khon La Lok -

She didn’t explain khon la lok . Some words only make sense after you’ve lived them. And Mali had just lived seven lives in an afternoon—none of them entirely hers, all of them hers now.

Mali’s throat closed. “Take me back.” khon la lok

She opened her eyes on the floor of the shop in Amphawa. The silver-haired woman was fanning her with a palm leaf. She didn’t explain khon la lok

Mali blinked. She was no longer in Amphawa. She stood on a street that looked like Bangkok but wasn’t. The sky was lavender. The traffic lights glowed in seven colors. And walking toward her was herself—an older version, with different clothes and a scar above her left eyebrow. Mali’s throat closed

An old man grabbed her wrist. “You don’t belong here,” he said, but his voice was kind. “This is the world where you were never born. We have no Mali. Your mother’s grief made a garden, though. Want to see?”

“That’s Dad in a world where he never married Mum,” the older Mali whispered. “He’s a poet here. Very sad. Very famous.”