Until the Next Life

Episode 3 : A Hidden Kindness

The sun rose pale and golden over Luang Prabang, spilling light across the ochre temples and the glimmering Mekong. The air smelled faintly of incense and jasmine, carried from the monastery steps where monks chanted morning prayers.

Khamla walked along the riverbank, carrying a small bundle of rice and dried fish for her family. The village was alive with preparations for Boun Khao Phansa, the Buddhist Lent festival that began the rainy season. Monks received offerings, women arranged lotus flowers in baskets, and children ran barefoot along the water’s edge, laughing as dragonflies skimmed the surface.

Even in the midst of the festival’s beauty, tension lingered. French soldiers still patrolled the village, their boots clanking against the stone paths. Khamla tightened her grip on the bundle, sensing their eyes on her.

A Small Act

Later, near the old teak bridge, she saw Étienne again. He was crouched by the river, examining the wooden planks as if they were maps, noting which were weak, which were rotting. Beside him, a young French soldier argued about how to force villagers to carry supplies across the river.

Khamla stopped, hiding behind a teak post, heart pounding. She expected him to scold or order, but instead… he gently corrected the soldier, speaking softly in French. The other man scowled but obeyed. Étienne’s calm authority spared the villagers more than once, though no one knew it.

Her curiosity wrestled with her anger. Could he be… different?

When she rounded a bend, she saw her brother, Somchai, struggling to carry a basket of rice across a muddy path. A French soldier, impatient and shouting, pushed him roughly. Khamla’s heart leapt, ready to intervene.

Before she could move, Étienne appeared, placing a hand lightly on the soldier’s shoulder. “Enough,” he said in French, tone measured but firm. The man stepped back, grumbling. Étienne helped Somchai lift the basket onto a safer path, and without a word, disappeared into the shade of the banyan trees.

Khamla watched, stunned. The soldier she had hated had just acted with kindness—secret, quiet, and powerful. Her chest twisted with confusion.

Festival Shadows

That evening, the village gathered near Wat Xieng Thong, the grand temple adorned with golden mosaics and sweeping roofs. Lanterns floated on the Mekong, carrying prayers for health and protection. Women in silk sinh skirts moved gracefully, carrying candles and offerings. The air was thick with the scent of frangipani and burning incense.

Khamla knelt with her mother and grandmother, tying white strings around her wrists during the Baci ceremony. Monks whispered blessings, calling back wandering souls and ensuring balance with the spirits of land and river. Khamla’s grandmother muttered about the phi—that the presence of foreigners could unsettle the spirits, and that one must be careful not to invite misfortune.

Khamla felt Étienne’s eyes again, watching from across the courtyard. She didn’t understand why her stomach fluttered, why anger mixed with something she dared not name.

Even amid the music of gongs, chants, and laughter, she sensed the river and the temple held their silent witness. The Mekong had remembered the soldiers’ arrival; now it seemed to observe her, and him, quietly marking the first threads of an impossible connection.

Unseen Acts

The next few days passed in small, almost invisible gestures. Étienne intervened quietly when villagers were punished, offered water to a sick child, and spoke gently to women carrying heavy loads. Khamla, watching from her doorway or behind trees, felt her heart tighten.

She refused to let herself admire him. He was the enemy. He wore the uniform of the colonizers, and he carried a foreign future she could never trust. And yet… he did not act like the others.

A seed of curiosity, buried deep beneath anger, began to grow.

She didn’t know it yet, but the Mekong carried the memory of his kindness forward, preparing a current that would sweep both their lives toward each other, despite the storms of fear, duty, and destiny.

And so, under lantern light, temple bells, and the watchful spirits of Luang Prabang, the first fragile threads of trust began to weave between the girl who hated and the soldier who observed.

The festival ended, lanterns drifted into the river, and the Mekong’s surface shimmered as though it had witnessed a promise not yet spoken.

A promise of something neither of them dared to name.