Jate tracked Peach down long after curfew. He'd been watching everyone. The tension between Art and Thanom had turned the dorms volatile. It was disruptive and uncomfortable.

"They're being stupid," Jate muttered, finding Peach sitting in the dirt near the back fence.

Peach kicked her bare feet in the dust. "They're just loud. Their echoes are touching."

"It's a problem," he countered, kicking around a ball that was left outside.

"No." Peach's eyes were unnervingly clear in the dark. "That's not the problem. You are. You stare at the space between them like you lost something there." She tilted her head. "You can't drop what you never held in the first place, Jate."

Jate stiffened. "What are you even talking about?"

"The boy with the chalk," she whispered, a smile touching her lips.

Jate frowned, his defensive wall going back up. "Who?"

"I saw him," Peach continued, her voice drifting. "I saw him with us. He doesn't hum. He's... quiet."

Jate studied her for a long moment. He wanted to ask what she meant, but he hated playing her games. Peach was just being Peach.

"Okay," he groaned, turning to leave. "You're just being weird again. Go to sleep."

"You'll see!" she called after him, her voice light and teasing. "He'll be a rock to lean on. Or maybe a stone to trip over."

⁕ ⁕ ⁕

Since the alcove, the relationship between Thanom and Art had become fragile. One would enter the room, and the other would leave. Thanom would sneak a glance at Art then quickly look away. Art would look like he was going to speak, then press his lips together.

Mali felt the friction most of all. The air around her two protectors was strange.

When she sat next to Thanom, he was rigid as a board. When she looked at Art, he was staring at the floor. They were so busy not looking at each other, they stopped looking at her.

She ran up to Art and thrust a cool rhinoceros beetle right in front of his face. "Look at this guy!" She was so excited.

Art didn't lift his eyes from the floor. "Mhm," he kept his 'lost in thought' face on and blindly patted the top of her head.

Thanom was in the common room, 'not watching' TV. His brows were scrunched and he was leaning forward and flicking a lock of hair that was hanging down over his forehead.

Mali held the beetle up in her open palm for over a minute, but her brother wouldn't even look. He just nodded without seeing it.

Clearly, she was invisible to them, and Peach wasn't around, so she left.

She wandered toward the back of the orphanage, past the laundry lines where sheets hung like limp ghosts drifting in the still air.

That was where she heard it—a song low enough to blend with the wind.

Curious, she followed the sound around the corner to a patch of cracked flagstones near the old spirit house.

And there he was.

A boy she recognized but didn't know sat on the ground, his back to her. He was small—smaller than Art, maybe a year younger. He was hunched over, his elbows jerking rhythmically as he worked.

Spread across the concrete was a sprawling mess of color. He was meticulously drawing in Lai Thai style with thick chalk—clouds curling into smoke, stars blooming into lotus buds, and brilliant blues and purples swirling into the tails of mythical nagas. His fingers were coated in layers of blue and silver dust.

Scrape—scrape—scrape. Chalk dragged harshly over stone, the sound gritty and insistent. He paused to blow across his drawing, sending up a soft cloud of blue dust that settled over his fingers and knees.

In the corner of the mural, he was practicing a specific shape over and over: a circle bisected by a single, sinuous wave, capturing two floating points within its curves.

He was completely absorbed, lost in his creation.

Mali stood mesmerized before he finally seemed to sense her. He stopped and turned his head slowly. A shy, almost cute smile touched his lips.

"Hello," he said.

Mali took a step closer, her eyes fixed on the mural. "They're beautiful."

The boy looked at his dirty hands, then back at the drawing. "Thanks," he said, his voice lilting upward.

He noticed her staring at the swirling circle symbol.

"What's that one?" she asked, pointing.

"Oh." He touched the chalk lines lovingly. "It's a pattern I like. I... I dream about it sometimes. It's... pretty."

He picked up a piece of bright blue chalk and held it out to her. The invitation needed no other words.

She pressed too hard at first, smearing the naga's tail into a wobbly blur. She frowned. The boy, whose name she now remembered was Phun, leaned closer and wrapped his fingers around her wrist.

"Like this," he murmured, easing her pressure, guiding her hand in a lighter curve.

There was only the sound of chalk on stone.

⁕ ⁕ ⁕

It was Art who found them first.

He'd been looking for Mali—he felt bad for ignoring her earlier and wanted to apologize. When he rounded the corner, he stopped. Seeing Mali so happy, sitting with this quiet boy made him sigh in relief. She was laughing, chalk dust on her nose, completely absorbed.

Phun's head snapped up as Art approached. He stiffened, color rising in his cheeks before the chalk slipped from his fingers, hitting Art's shin then dropping down to the stone. He quickly wiped his chalky hands on his shorts, leaving blue streaks on the fabric. "Sorry. I'm so sorry."

Art was surprised by the panic. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Phun fumbled as he reached into the worn satchel, fingers trembling slightly as they dug inside. He pulled out a small, folded paper crane. It was delicate, made of thin notebook paper.

He held it out to Art.

Art took it, his fingers brushing Phun's. The paper was warm. "Thank you."

Art smiled, and Phun looked like he might faint.

The quiet broke when Thanom appeared. He stopped dead when he saw Mali with a strange boy he didn't know. Then he saw Art—smiling, accepting a gift from another boy's hands—and heat flared in his chest.

Before he could speak, Mali beamed at him, holding up her chalk-dusted hands. "Look, Phi Thanom! Phun is teaching me how to draw."

As Thanom stared him down, Phun involuntarily shrank under the scrutiny before meeting Thanom's intimidating glare with a respectful nod.

Phun reached into his satchel again. Thanom tensed, weight shifting to the balls of his feet, ready to strike if he had to.

Phun produced a smooth, grey river stone. Painted on the surface was a white circle. A tiny moon.

He offered it to Thanom with shaking hands. "I... I painted this," he whispered, looking at Thanom with wide, nervous eyes. "You… can have it."

Thanom was disarmed. The fire under his skin had sputtered and died, like an engine out of fuel. He looked from the stone to Phun's earnest, frightened face.

He stared at the rock. A rock? He blinked, baffled. Warily, he took it.

It was cool and smooth against his hot skin. Thanom looked at the stone again. Then at Art, who was watching him. Then back at the chalk boy. The heat in his chest had snuffed out. He didn't understand why he didn't feel upset anymore.

Thanom exhaled. It was impossible to be angry at someone who looked so scared and anxious.

"Thanks," Thanom muttered, the tension leaving his shoulders.

Phun gave a small, relieved smile.